Kind of Like Evil
by Frost Deejn
Summary: The first case Goren and Eames work together: a daring triple homicide. None of the victims knew each other, and each had enemies. How do the detectives narrow down the list of suspects? And can Eames put up with her eccentric new partner?
1. First Impressions

Author's Note: Yes, I do know how many times "Goren and Eames first case" has been done, but I ask you...can it ever really be done enough?

Disclaimer: _Law and Order: Criminal Intent_ is the intellectual property of Dick Wolf. I make no money from this. And if he wanted to take my idea for an episode I wouldn't object or sue.

Kind of Like Evil

Chapter 1: First Impressions

Friday, July 20th, 2001

The Blue Monday Bar was an unassuming, somewhat gritty, unapologetically utilitarian place that, while large, had a cozy feel. It was a popular hangout for cops. Detective Octavio Raub sat down at the bar after a long day on the job. "The usual," he called to the bartender, Brice, who was himself a retired cop.

Brice poured him a thick beer. When Octavio reached for his wallet, Brice waved dismissively. "You're being treated today. Lady cop at the end of the bar. She's been waiting for a while. Lucky you."

Octavio glanced over and caught the eye of the petite blonde Brice nodded toward. She moved over to sit beside him. "I'd like the same, Brice." She smiled at Octavio, who was still trying to figure out why she'd buy him a drink.

"Have we met?" he asked, even though he was sure they hadn't.

"No, but I've heard of you. I'm Alex Eames, from Vice."

"A pleasure to meet you. I'm not sure what I owe it to."

"I should say I'm _formerly _from Vice. I just got reassigned to Major Case."

"Ah," Octavio nodded with dawning comprehension. "Let me guess: you're partnered with Bobby Goren."

"How'd you know?"

"It explains why a lady like you'd buy a guy like me a drink. You want to know what you're getting yourself into." Octavio took a gulp of his drink. "It took them long enough," he said a little regretfully. "Did you request this assignment, or..."

"It requested me. Captain Deakins heard about my solve rate at Vice and pulled some strings to get me transferred."

He nodded. "That's quite the compliment, a big boost for your career."

She smiled. "I'll miss my colleagues in Vice, but I can't say I'll miss the pimps."

He regarded her, considered her. "You seem like you're easy to get along with, Eames. And I'm guessing, since Deakins wants you, that you're as tough as they get."

"You're half right; I'm not that easy to get along with." She took obvious pride in this assertion.

Octavio took another drink, then another long look at the woman sitting beside him. "What have you heard about Detective Goren so far?"

"That he's brilliant, he's unconventional, and he's not much of a team player."

"That's...one way to say it."

"What's he really like?" she asked.

"Goren's intense," he said with a shrug. "He's a genius; I honestly can't say why he chose to be a cop. He can wheedle the truth out of any witness or suspect. He's really a nice guy, and if I had the guts to look him in the eye after asking for a transfer, I'd invite him out for a drink."

"So why did you ask for the transfer?"

"Like I said, he's intense. The way his mind works is...it's like he's on a different plain from us mere mortals. And he can get into the heads of perps like...like he lives there. It can get on your nerves, and more than that, it can get scary. You've already accepted the assignment?"

"Yeah," she confirmed.

"Then I don't mind telling you you're in for a hell of a ride. One suspect we interrogated, about a month into our partnership...the guy'd killed his girlfriend's elderly parents with a carbon monoxide time bomb. I was afraid Goren was going to kill the guy with his bare hands right there in the interrogation room. He didn't even touch him, but I was just sure he was going to smash his face in and I couldn't stop him. I like the guy, but I don't trust him. I could never be sure he'd have my back. He's off in his own world half the time. He's unstable." Octavio recited the reasons like he'd rehearsed them. He'd been over them in his mind over and over when he decided to ask for a new partner. "One more thing: I hope you've got a strong stomach. Goren'll poke and sniff and even taste stuff most people wouldn't go near. Just a heads up."

"Thank you," she said as she motioned the bartender over and paid for the drinks.

"I want to wish you good luck, Eames, 'cause you're gonna need it," Octavio said.

* * *

Monday July 23rd. 

Detective Bobby Goren sat at his desk on the eleventh floor of One Police Plaza. In front of him was the file on his impending partner, Detective Alexandra Eames. He noted the bland facts: age, years of service, solve rate. She came from a family of cops. Her statistics were glowing, her record untarnished. He had the ability to read between the lines, to deduce more of the truth from what wasn't written than what was written. What he saw here was a passionate, competent cop who worked inside the rules but didn't pull punches. A woman who knew how to take care of herself, and proved herself not just equal but superior to her male colleagues, and did it all in such a way that she avoided making enemies. Resilient, dedicated. She'd been married to a cop, who died in a drug-related shootout two and a half years earlier. That note gave him pause. She'd been back on the job in a week, and her solve rate went up. Was throwing herself into her work a coping mechanism, in which case it would probably slack off as she returned to normalcy? Or had her husband's death given her a personal motive for fighting crime? A vendetta? Demerit, either way. She'd been married for five years, and had no children. They had either been incapable of having children or chosen not to.

He noted all this with a slightly disinterested objectivity. He wanted to know how to work with this person, but he took it as a given that he wouldn't be working with her for long.

He put the file in his desk to revisit and re-evaluate after meeting her in person, then he went over the paperwork from his last case. It was almost 10 a.m., which was when Detective Eames was scheduled to meet with Deakins. He expected she would be at least five minutes early.

He was right. At 9:53 the elevator door opened, and Officer McGowan entered beside Detective Eames (Goren recognized her from her file photo) and pointed her in the direction of Deakins' officer. Goren kept his eyes fixed on his paperwork as she walked by. A minute later, Deakins poked his head out the door. "Goren, my office please."

He complied, curious as ever to meet a new partner. Detective Eames stood and offered her hand as Deakin's introduced them.

"Detective Goren, your new partner Detective Alex Eames."

Her grip was firm, just like he expected. "Nice to finally meet you." Her voice surprised him a little. It was deeper than he would have expected from a woman her size, a little bit chalky, almost bored. It was a voice well suited to sarcasm.

He unobtrusively examined her face. Her chin had a slightly defiant tilt. Her thin lips were edged with harsh creases. There was no trace of weakness in that face. Even her closed-lipped smile seemed hard. Her eyes were wary, and they were also evaluating him. He guessed that he wasn't what she expected.

_I hope you know what you're getting yourself into,_ Alex thought to herself. This was the renowned Detective Robert Goren? He didn't look like a genius. He was large and tall, with a heavy jowl, shadowy stubble, and dark eyes. He looked like a thug, a bouncer, or a bodyguard. She'd half expected a pasty, skinny guy with thick glasses and a pocket protector. He didn't look all that "intense" either. For all his size, she was pretty sure she could have taken him down. She'd learned in junior high—and again working Vice—that the big ones moved slowest and fell hardest, and were easily thrown off guard by anyone with the guts to stand up to them.

"Welcome to the Major Case Squad," Goren said.

She was also surprised by his voice. It was higher than she would have expected from a man his size, and softer than his face suggested. Was it her imagination that it was slightly condescending, like the voice a doctor might use to comfort a scared young patient?

Captain James Deakins, arms folded, shook his head almost imperceptibly as he watched the detectives size each other up. He hoped this partnership would work out, but he didn't hold much more hope than Goren did. Goren worked alone. Even when he had a partner, he worked alone. "Why don't you bring Eames up to speed on your last case, Detective?" he suggested.

"Right." He led Eames to her desk, and watched peripherally as she tested out her chair, glanced over the desk, and started arranging her computer, pens, and notepads.

"The last case...we're close to closing it. Edward Chapel shot his best friend, Charles Luis, then moved the body to Luis's girlfriend's apartment. The girlfriend was a judge's daughter, which is why they called in Major Case. We already have a confession."

"Why did he do it? Jealousy?" Eames asked.

"Nothing so prosaic. They got in an argument over a poker game after having a few drinks, it got out of hand, the suspect accidentally shot his friend while trying to scare him with the gun, and tried to cover it up. He never did like the girlfriend very much."

"How did you get him to confess?"

"It wasn't hard. The guilt was killing him. When we arrested him, he was trying to overdose on sleeping pills."

"Are all your cases that easy?"

"Not even close."

"What do you still need to close the case?" She flicked the hair out of her face with a quick, practiced toss of her head that she probably didn't even notice.

Goren always noticed.

He slid the case file over to her. "State of mind before the killing. The suspect isn't even sure if it was premeditated or not."

"How do you plan on determining that?"

"From the crime scene and from his personality. I'm convinced the murder itself was accidental, but ADA Carver would really like it to be premeditated."

"To get the hardest time possible for trying to frame a judge's daughter." She pushed an exasperated breath through her teeth. "Those ADAs..."

"I imagine you're no stranger to politics, working in Vice," he said, glancing up at her with a guarded expression.

Her eyebrows rose. "You've been reading up on me." She assumed as much.

"Of course. And you've been looking into me."

"I wouldn't be much of a detective if I didn't," she said. She opened the folder and started reading.

Three hours later - hours that had been soaked up in paperwork, phone calls, and occasional impersonal smalltalk - Deakins emerged from his office to talk to them. "You can finish up the Chapel case later. There was just a shooting downtown. A political refugee may have been assassinated."


	2. The Case

A/N: Edited for continuity errors.

Chapter 2: The Case

Detective Goren watched his new partner out of the corner of his eye as they walked to the parking garage. He had determined that her "tough cop" demeanor wasn't an act, just authentically the kind of person she was.

He opened the driver's side door of the car, but she stepped into it. "How kind of you to hold the door for me." There was a challenge in her voice.

He looked at her with surprise, and had to ask himself why he automatically assumed he would be driving. He couldn't think of anything to say, so he dropped the keys into her outstretched hand and walked around to the other side of the car. Of course she would be indignant, he contemplated. As a female cop she had to constantly challenge the gender role expectations of society, and driving was one of them. He shouldn't have been so inconsiderate. He watched her settle into the driver's seat, scoot it forward, buckle, smooth the straps over her hips and across her chest, then start the car. He concluded that she also simply enjoyed driving.

She glanced over at him. "What are you looking at?"

He held up his hands in a disarming gesture, then looked away. His left hand rubbed his chin and jaw.

They didn't say much else on the drive.

* * *

Skyscrapers blocked the early afternoon sun from the street. Eames walked as close as she could beside Goren as he cleared a path through the crowd of cops, photographers, and CSU. 

"Yusuf Pasha. Immigrated from Cyprus in '96 after giving evidence against a radical Turkish seperatist group. He has a wife and two kids. Cab driver," one of the officers explained to them. "Witnesses saw someone dressed as a vagrant walk up to the cab when it stopped at the intersection, shoot a gun through the passanger-side window, then get in. Then he or she shot the gun either one or two more times. Pasha got out of the cab and tried to run away, and the shooter got behind the wheel and ran him down."

Goren and Eames looked down at the body. He was facedown on the sidewalk in a pool of blood, his open eyes still looked terrified.

"Anyone get a good look at the suspect?" Eames inquired.

"White, about five seven or five eight. Under the coat and the dirt on the face, we can't even get witnesses to agree whether it was a man or woman."

Goren knelt next to the body, pulled on gloves, and started examining the bullet wound in his shoulder. Then he stood up and wandered off. His eyes followed an imaginary line from the body to where the car must have been stopped when the killer got in. He crouched down and scanned the ground.

"...there were either one or two people in the back of the cab. They haven't been located. We're hoping that since this was a political assassination, the killer will keep them as hostages until he or she is out of the city, then let them go unharmed," the officer was saying.

"That's assuming this was political; we can't rule out robbery or personal motive. What the hell is he doing?" Eames asked, refering to Goren, who was fishing something out of a gutter.

One of the CSU techs said, "Don't worry; he does this all the time. He finds things even we miss." The young man sounded like he had a case of hero worship.

Eames walked over to Goren and watched with creased brow as he sniffed the small scrap of something he'd pulled from the gutter filth. "What is it?"

He stood up and showed it to her: a tiny piece of wet brown paper. "It's singed. It smells like gun powder."

"The killer was disguised as a vagrant; maybe he was hiding the gun in a paper bag?"

"That would be my guess." He wandered away again, crossing the yellow tape to get a look at the bigger environment.

Eames' eyes followed him for a moment before her feet did. "Now where are you going?"

He didn't answer. She trailed after him to a parking garage across the street, then to the rather dank side alley. The ground beneath her feet was technically dirt, but it was so littered with broken bottles, plastic bags, used lighters and syringes and cigarette butts that the dirt looked outnumbered.

"Hey!" Goren called in friendly greeting.

A man unfurled from the shadow of a sagging cardboard box. "Can I help you?" said the voice from the ragged, dirty man's mouth.

"I'm Detective Goren, this is Detective Eames. Did you see the shooting?"

"I heard it. About lunchtime. What about it?"

"Did you see anyone on that corner before it happened? Anyone just standing there?"

"Panhandler, I thought. But didn't ask for money. Had paper bag, smelled like booze. Too warm today for the clothes. I said that. I said 'e'd get heatstroke in the coat."

Eames spoke up. "Did you get a good look? Man or woman?"

"Couldn't tell. Bundled up too tight. Didn't talk to me. Ignored me." He shifted his eyes to Eames. "People ignore us a lot."

"Did you notice anything else about this person?" Goren asked.

The man shook his head. "No. Didn't stay long. We don't like that corner much. The rich guys in the big office buildings are mean."

"Thanks for your help." Goren held out a ten dollar bill.

"I don't want your charity." Curiously, the man didn't sound resentful anymore. He folded back up and disappeared into the shadow of his box.

Goren tucked the bill into his pocket. "I'll talk to you again if I have any follow-up questions. What's your name?"

"Thomas."

"Thanks again, Thomas."

"Just doing my civic duty. I'm a witness to a crime, ain't I?"

"Yes you are," Goren confirmed.

He walked back to the crime scene. Eames trailed after him. "The killer was waiting for that cab for a while. Probably had the place scoped out in advance. I wonder if anyone got a good look."

"_I_ wonder how the killer knew that cab would be coming," Goren retorted.

When they returned to the crime scene, a middle aged Indian man ran up to them. "I'm told you're in charge here," he said to Goren.

"Can we help you?" Eames asked.

"I'm Andrew Gupta, senior partner for the DeForest and Gupta Lawfirm. This is our office building here."

"We'll open the road as soon as we're done clearing the crime scene," said Eames.

"That's not what I need to talk to you about. Did you happen to find a ransom note?"

Goren suddenly looked more interested. "No. Are you expecting one?"

"One of our junior partners, Craig Hart, left the building right before the shooting. We can't get in touch with him. I've been told there were a couple of people in the back of the stolen car; he could be one of them."

"And you think there will be a ransom note?" Eames pressed.

"Why else would he be kidnapped?"

"Revenge," Goren suggested. "What kind of cases did he work?"

"Corporate cases, mostly, but his skills are also in high demand as a defense attorney. He is a very, very valuable employee. I want to be informed immediately if a ransom demand is made." He thrust his card out, then stalked away as soon as Goren took it.

"A run-over political refugee and now a missing defense attorney," Eames mused. "Some first day."

* * *

When they got back to 1PP, Goren and Eames found someone waiting by their desks. "Counselor, what are you doing here?" Goren asked, warily but pleasantly. 

The man turned around. "This murder took place right outside the law offices of DeForest and Gupta. One of their junior partners is unaccounted for, and was seen leaving the building right before the shooting. The DA's office is concerned."

"So we heard," Eames said.

The man coughed politely and stared at Goren, waiting for him to make introductions.

"Oh, this is Detective Alex Eames. She's been assigned as my partner. Eames, ADA Ron Carver."

"Nice to meet you." She shook his hand.

"Likewise, Detective." He looked back at Goren, but nodded to include Eames in his audience. "Needless to say, every squad car in the city is on the lookout for this runaway taxi. Until we have reason to believe otherwise, we're assuming Craig Hart and any other hostage are still alive. He's a highly skilled, some would say notorious defense attorney. With any luck the killer knows what a valuable hostage he makes."

"Tell them not to get their hopes up," Goren said.

Eames frowned at her new partner. Where did that come from?

"A killer who shoots and runs over someone in broad daylight in front of dozens of witnesses...dozens of potential accidental casualties...that wasn't the work of a professional assassin. Besides," Goren added to fill the silence, "There weren't glass shards in the bullet wound."

"Was there a reason Hart left the office right then?" Eames wondered.

Carver blinked. "I didn't think to ask. Questioning the witnesses is your job."

"You called Hart 'notorious'," Goren said slowly. "What kind of clients did he work with?"

"Wealthy ones. Last year, he took the case of a man accused of killing his ex-wife and her fiance in their bedroom. Hart got some blood evidence thrown out on a technicality. The defendent was found not guilty and later confessed to the murders in a newspaper interview. Needless to say, Hart's career took off after that."

"Inspiring," Eames said sarcastically.

* * *

"He sometimes went out for lunch when he wasn't busy, but usually he ordered in," said Craig Hart's secretary. "He looked like he was in a hurry this morning. He might have had a meeting with a client." 

"Did he call for a cab?" Goren asked.

"I don't know. He usually did when he went out to lunch, since it's so hard to find a parking space around here in the middle of the day."

"Did anyone call for him before he left?" Eames questioned.

"No. I mean he got some calls, he always does, but none right before he left. You don't know he was in the shooting, right? This could all be a coincidence, right?"

"Right now we can't rule anything out. It's important that you call us if you hear from him," Eames said.

He nodded as he took her card.

* * *

"Seven hours, and still no sign of the carjacked cab or anyone in it," Deakins said when Goren and Eames returned to the office. 

"And still no leads on the assailant," Goren added.

"Tomorrow morning I want you to interview Pasha's widow. Find out if anyone's threatened him recently. I'll see you tomorrow."

Eames grabbed her things and headed to the elevator. "Goodnight Goren."

Goren was looking at some papers at his desk, but he hadn't sat down, so she guessed he didn't intend to be there for long. "Night, Eames," he mumbled.

* * *

Alex met her friend Monique at the Lilac Lounge, a relatively classy cocktail bar. Monique had already ordered them two martinis. 

"You're late," she chided.

Alex smiled apologetically. "Sorry. It's been...it's been a day."

"Major Case, the big leagues. How did your first day treat you?"

A sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh twisted Alex's mouth into a crooked smile. "A cab driver was shot at and run over with his own car. Dozens of witnesses, and no one can even give a good enough description of the shooter for a sketch."

"No leads yet?" Monique asked simpathetically. She tossed back her thick mane of brown curls as she took a sip of her martini.

"Nothing solid. This is going to be an interesting job."

"Well, if you ever get tired of it, the Cap would love to have you back in Vice. Today we spent hours searching for a pro who witnessed a murder. We had a good description of her, but not her name. The captain said, and I quote, 'Where the hell is Eames when I need 'er?'"

Alex smiled. "Nice to feel wanted," she said.

"How do you like your new partner, the wiz kid?"

She bit her lip and looked into her martini.

Monique leaned on her elbow and looked at Alex with pity. "That bad, huh?"

"He's interesting," she said. "To be honest, I'm not quite sure what to make of him. He notices the tiniest details about everything, but I kept getting the feeling he was ignoring me."

"I think I've dated him!" Monique joked.

"I wouldn't be surprised. He is _kind _of cute...for a detective," Alex joked back. "He'll be a challenge to work with."

"Unless he spouts conspiracy theories on a daily basis, I don't think you have room to complain."

"At least he didn't put up a fight when I wanted to drive. He doesn't seem like too much of a chauvinist."

Monique chuckled lightly. "Some guys think a Y chromosome is a prerequisite for being a good cop. With your age and looks, they'll probably think you slept your way to detective. But if anyone can show them the error of their ways, it's you, sweetie."

"I'll drink to that," Alex said. They clicked their glasses together in a toast.

* * *

"Sorry I'm late," Bobby apologized as he sat at a table in the Ristorante Bella Sera. 

"I'm used to it," his date said with a small smile as she leaned across the table to peck him on the cheek. "How was your day?"

"I got a new case. I have a few leads, but nothing solid yet."

"You'll figure it out. Detective Goren always gets his man." Yolanna's smile grew, accentuating her catlike features.

He gave her a small smile, but his voice had an undertone of sadness when he said, "I wish."

Yolanna stirred the cream in her vanilla Italian soda. "Did you meet your new partner today?"

"Yeah, I did."

"What's he like?"

"She. She seems nice."

"That's all? 'Nice'?"

"I haven't quite figured her out yet."

"Bobby Goren, who can figure out anyone the second he meets them, doesn't know what to think of his new partner?" she asked incredulously.

"It's different when it's someone I have to work with. I need to know more about them before I make a judgment. I know she's...competent, and dedicated, and she doesn't like me much."

"She just needs to get to know you." Yolanna assured him.

The waitress approached their table. "Are you ready to order?" she inquired.

"I'll have the tossed salad with calamari, with blue cheese dressing on the side," Yolanna said as she surrendered her menu.

"Garlic penne with a side of chicken soup," Bobby ordered.

"Would you like anything to drink?" the waitress asked.

He frowned thoughtfully at the wine list. "Just water for now," he said.

As the waitress walked away, Yolanna gestured at her. "The waitress, what can you tell about her already?"

"Am I some kind of party trick?"

"You need three people to have a party," Yolanna countered. "Come on, it would be good exercise for your profiling skills."

He turned in his chair to watch the departing waitress. "She's fit. The way she positions her feet, the way she moves her hips..."

"Are you trying to make me jealous?"

"You asked," he replied mildly without taking his eyes off the waitress. "It looks like she's taken martial arts, most likely karate. She's young, working nights...probably in college. And she's recently divorced."

"How can you tell that?"

"The tan line on her left ring finger, and the way she looks at attractive men: equal parts guilt and vindication. Her hands look like she washes them a lot, and she has bleached spots on her sleeves. I think her major is either chemistry or biology."

"Amazing," Yolanna said in admiration.

Bobby turned back to her. "Guesses. I can't know if I'm right or not, so I can't use this little exercise to refine my profiling skills."

"You could ask her," Yolanna suggested.

"Most people find it...disconcerting to be analyzed by a stranger."

The waitress returned with Bobby's water and another Italian soda for Yolanna.

"Hey, my boyfriend was wondering if you take karate," Yolanna asked.

She looked surprised. "I did until a few months ago. How did you know?"

"The way you moved your feet," Yolanna answered. "Why did you stop?"

"My class load just got to be too much to deal with."

"Mm, I remember what that's like. What's your major?"

"Organic chemisty." She smiled shyly. "But I don't know what I'm going to do with it yet. I'll be back in a minute with your meals."

Yolanna looked at Bobby smugly, as though the victory were hers.

"How was _your _day at work," he asked.

Yolanna's smile suddenly turned bright, and her eyes sparkled. "What do you know about the order Solifugae?"

"Not much. I've heard of camel spiders. Why?"

"They aren't spiders, they're a different order in the arachnid class, also known as sunspiders, windspiders, sunscorpions, windscorpions. I prefer 'sunspiders' because they look more like spiders than scorpions and I like the irony that they're nocturnal. In fact, the word 'Solifugae' means 'sun-fleer' in Latin. Camel spiders are the fastest known arthropod, though contrary to urban legend they don't chase people down and bite them," she said, then quickly added, "but of course you know that already. This morning some people found a sunspider in a crate of bananas shipped in from Central America. How the poor thing got in the bananas I can't imagine. They caught it under a cup when it tried to run away, then called me in. They were so scared of the little thing. They called it a ten-legged freak, they thought it was some kind of mutant spider." She chuckled. "I told them it only had eight legs; the two long things in front are actually pedipalps. It was mean-looking, though. It gnashed it's jaw and flailed its pedipalps all over the place when I picked it up to put in a cage. It's a female; I'm thinking of naming her Jane."

Bobby laughed along with her. "How could you tell it was female?" he asked.

"Oh, I'd hate to bore you. I could go on about sunspiders all night."

"You never bore me, Yolanna."

She launched into an explanation of the secondary sex characteristics of sunspiders. Bobby listened patiently, filing away everything he heard. Of course, it wasn't likely that knowing about the arachnid class Solufidae would ever help him in a case, but stranger things had proven useful. And besides, he was naturally, insatiably curious. As smart as his curiosity had led him to become, he knew that everyone, no matter how uneducated they might seem, knew things he didn't. Often they knew an extraordinary amount about the field they worked in, or a hobby they had, something they were passionate about. For Yolanna, a professional arachnologist, it was spiders and anything related to spiders. The day he'd met her, swooning over a jumping spider on a park bench, he'd learned more about jumping spiders than he thought there was to know. People found it flattering when someone else expressed interest in their passion, and they always ended up saying more than they meant to. The interrogation techniques Goren used on suspects became conversation cues on dates.

Bobby Goren really did like people. In spite of everything he knew people were capable of, the things he'd seen in the course of his career, and everything people had done to him, he believed most people were basically good if they weren't faced with tempting reasons not to be.

He wasn't a difficult person to get along with. Not really. He had many friends, he could strike up an amiable conversation with anyone from street vendors to suspects, his neighbors and coworkers generally liked him, his bosses and, back in his school days, teachers tended to love him. It was only the innermost circle that was empty. His partners left him at the first opportunity, he'd never had a girlfriend last more than a year. And then there was family, the heart of the matter.

He knew it was partly his personality that kept people from getting too close, and partly his tendency (or was it a policy?) to push people away.

He listened attentively as Yolanna told him about the first time she saw a sunspider, on a camping trip in the Arizona desert.

As much as he enjoyed his time with her, he knew she wouldn't last. She said she was used to him being late, but it wouldn't be long before "used to" became "sick of." Besides, there was a younger man who worked in her department whom she mentioned frequently. She saw him as a kind of protoge, and it hadn't crossed her mind yet that she had feelings for him. Once it did, she would end her romance with the eccentric detective. He intended to make it as amicable a breakup as possible, so they could remain friends afterward. In the meantime, she was interesting, attractive, and fun to be with, and Bobby really hoped his profile of her turned out to be wrong.

"If you don't mind coming to my office tonight, I'll let you meet Jane," she offered.

"I'd like that," he said.


	3. The Victims

Chapter 3: The Victims

Tuesday, July 24th.

Yusuf Pasha's widow, Arzu, had a face soaked with tears and puffy eyes when she answered the door of her apartment. She'd clearly been crying for hours. "You're the police?" she asked.

"I'm Detective Goren, this is Detective Eames. We'd like to ask you some questions about your husband," he said gently.

She nodded. "Come in." She looked at Goren hesitantly as he walked by, and stood back further than necessary.

When Arzu spoke, she kept her eyes fastened on the ground. "Forgive me, I don't have much to offer for guests. Would you mind some coffee?" She seemed to have just thought of it, and went to the kitchen before they could accept or decline. Through the door, they saw two children at the kitchen table. One of them slowly spooned breakfast cereal into his mouth while tears streamed down his face. The other one stared at the detectives with wide eyes. Arzu said something to them in Turkish, then started making the coffee.

Goren stepped closer to Eames. "She's not comfortable around men she doesn't know," he whispered. "You should take charge of the interview."

"Okay," she whispered back.

Arzu returned with the coffee in small delicately painted ceramic cups on a matching tray. Goren took one and asked, "Did your husband keep any papers, a journal, letters, anything like that?"

She looked surprised and suspicious, but she nodded. She placed the tray on her coffee table. "I'll be right back." She returned a minute later with a small box. "I don't think it matters anymore," she said, trying to convince herself that she was doing the right thing by handing over her late husband's private records.

Goren put on gloves before taking the box to a desk in the corner of the room.

Arzu sat down on her threadbare sofa and took the tiniest possible sip of her coffee, as though ingesting anything was torture.

Eames tasted the coffee, which was strong and gritty and sweet. "I know this is difficult to talk about. I'm very sorry for your loss, and I promise we'll do anything we can to find your husband's killer."

Arzu sputtered a choked sob.

With a wince of sympathy, Eames continued. "Did anyone threaten him recently?"

"No." She shook her head as fresh, fat tears slid down her face. "No one even knew we were here. If Yusuf had seen anyone we knew from before, he would have told me. We would have told the government and moved somewhere else."

One of Arzu's children - the little girl with the wide eyes - came into the room. "Mommy, I don't like breakfast. I want daddy."

Arzu spoke falteringly in Turkish.

"No he's not!" the girl shouted. "You're lying! I want to see daddy now!"

"Go finish breakfast, Keyif," her mother begged.

The girl balled her hands into angry fists and marched back to the kitchen.

"Tell me about what happened in Cyprus," Eames asked.

Arzu blinked rapidly. "It doesn't matter now," she said in the same tone of voice she'd used for the papers. She glanced up for the first time. "Yusuf gave testimony against a terrorist group. To keep me safe...I was pregnant with our son at the time...he agreed to testify if we could go to America, where his old friends couldn't find us. But there was something he didn't tell them. The bomb maker told them, but they didn't believe him. He knew about the terrorists because he...helped bomb a building in Lefkosha several years before. Four people were killed. But he became a different man when he married me. He was a good man. And the people after him, they couldn't have found us. Most of them are now in prison or dead."

"And the family of the bomb victims," Eames prodded gently, "did any of them threaten your husband?"

She nodded. "After the trial, a man...the son of one of the dead. He told Yusuf he would suffer for what he did. I don't know the man's name. His father's name was Zabat. He was an important man with money. The son could have done this." Sobs punctuated her speech as she concluded, "I can think of no one else."

"Thank you, Mrs. Pasha."

A baby started crying in the next room. Arzu's head snapped toward the sound, but instead of going to her baby she collapsed in tears into her hands. "What am I going to do now? Three children, no work, no family to go to, no money...What am I supposed to do?"

Eames took a card and wrote a name and phone number on the back. "I have a friend who helps women in situations like yours. She's a social worker who volunteers at a women's shelter. Give her a call."

Arzu nodded as she took the card. "Forgive me...I have to feed my baby." The infant's wails were becoming more insistent.

Goren stood from the corner desk, where he had been so silent he'd faded into the background. He carried a few letters in evidence bags.

"Do you mind if I take these to look at later?" Goren asked about the letters in his hand.

"Take them, please, if they will help."

As they walked out of the apartment, Eames rubbed her head, trying to stave off an impending headache. "Just a few of the many reasons I'm not having kids," she said.

Goren didn't say anything. He was examining one of the letters through the plastic.

"Find anything interesting?"

"Most of it was in Turkish," he replied. "And nothing looked like a threat. But it gave us away for Pasha's widow to ignore me and open up to you." It struck him suddenly that Eames could have brought up her own experience losing a husband as a way to connect with the witness, but she hadn't. Nor did she seem shaken by the woman's outburst of grief. He wondered.

* * *

Water gushed from the cab as it was hauled from the river beneath a bridge a few miles from the crime scene. 

Minutes later, Goren and Eames arrived.

"So much for the ransom," Eames said as she looked over the blue, bloated body still strapped in the back seat. She compared his face to a photo she had of Craig Hart. "Single gunshot wound to the forehead. He must have seen it coming."

Goren nodded, but his attention was on the other body, a petite woman with dark brown hair. She was unbuckled, and sprawled across the floor between the seats. "Gunshot wound to the stomach." He climbed into the cab, careful not to disturb anything, and poked his gloved fingers into the waterlogged wound.

Eames, who was by no means squeamish, had to look away. She fastened her eyes on the river. "It looks like the killer smashed out all the windows before pushing the car into the water. Probably thought it would wash away more evidence. With how isolated this place is, he probably didn't worry about someone hearing." She glanced briefly at the woman's gunshot wounds. "But I'm surprised no one heard the screams."

"It probably hurt too much to scream," Goren said. "And it would have taken her a while to bleed to death. The killer watched her suffer. She was the primary target."

"You're sure?"

"There are glass shards in the wound. The first shot wasn't aimed at the driver; it was aimed at her. One of them vomited. Probably Hart, it's on his side of the car. No purse or wallet. There's no jewelry either. She has tan lines from a ring on her right hand, a bracelet on her right wrist, and a watch on her left wrist. Hart had a watch. The killer didn't want us to identify them."

"Or it was a robbery."

"If it were a robbery why did the killer run over Pasha?"

"If the woman was the target, why did the killer run over Pasha?" Eames retorted challengingly.

"I haven't figured that out yet," Goren admitted.

She was starting to get tired of his attitude. "There's no 'I' in 'team', Goren," she said a little irritably.

He glanced up. "There is...if you spell it phonetically."

She sighed and rolled her eyes. Then she noticed something beneath the front seat. "What's that?"

Goren looked down where she indicated, then shifted his position so he could reach the item without disturbing the body. "Looks like a shopping bag." He handed it out to her.

The soaked paper bag was crumbling. Eames carefully eased out the smooth, heavy object inside it. A violet shimmer caught the sunlight. "Lotion bottle, not even opened yet."

"Is there a receipt?" Goren asked.

She took a small rectangle of paper from the bag. The ink was hopelessly smeared. "It's not legible, but it doesn't matter. Check out the brand." She held the lotion bottle so he could see the writing. "Fujibana's. It's a high-end boutique. There's only one in the city."

"They might know our mystery victim's name. Otherwise, we can only hope her prints are in the system."

* * *

Wednesday, July 25th. 

Of course the victim's prints wouldn't be in the system, Eames thought as they entered the fancy shop the next morning. No way she would be that lucky.

Fujibana's Beauty Boutique was a wash of violet and mauve. Women in Prada and Versace browsed the sparse, artistically displayed products on glass shelves. Eames was almost afraid to touch anything lest she leave a smudge.

"May I be of assistance?" asked a woman with tightly braided brown hair. She was only distinguishable from the customers by being less expensively dressed.

"Yes. I'm Detective Alex Eames, this is my partner Detective Goren. There was a woman in here Monday morning. Who was working then?"

"I was," the woman answered.

"Did you see her?" Goren asked as he showed her a photo of Jane Doe.

The woman recoiled from the picture of the body. "I'm sorry, I'm no good at all with faces."

"She bought a bottle of wisteria scented lotion," Eames added.

"Oh yes, I remember her," she said. "She was wearing a red beryl ring, gold, with a maple leaf filagree, and diamond accents."

"So you're no good with faces, but you can remember that much detail about a ring?" Eames asked.

"You never forget a gem like that."

"Are you sure it was red beryl?" Goren inquired.

"Definitely. Jewelry is kind of a passion of mine, especially with rare gemstones. You think I plan on working in a place like this for the rest of my life?"

"Did you get her name?"

"No. She paid with cash. I asked her if her ring was custom made, and she just scoffed and said of course it was. She must have had a sugardaddy, as she didn't seem to have the...refinement to pick a ring like that out for herself."

* * *

"At least we can get a description of the ring out to pawn shops," Eames said as they left the building. 

"I think we can do better than that," said Goren. "There can't be too many designers in New York that carry red beryl. It's one of the rarest gemstones in the world. Jewelry-grade red beryl is only mined in one place: the Wah Wah mountains of central Utah."

Eames stared at him. "You know that off the top of your head how?"

"I read a lot," he said dismissively.

They spent the next hour calling the top jewelry designers in the city. After one such call, Eames wrote something down and said a hearty "Thank you," before hanging up the phone and turning toward her partner with a toss of her hair.

"You found her," Goren surmised.

"Remember Ferdinand Smith?"

"The billionaire entrepreneur who died last year? Yeah."

"He had that ring made for his much younger wife Monica."

"Who's been fighting a lawsuit with her stepson over the Smith estate," Goren recalled.

Eames looked thoughtful. "Maybe we should call that stepson down to the station. We need someone to ID the body."

* * *

Cameron Smith, son of the late billionaire Ferdinand Smith and stepson of the recently deceased billionairess Monica Smith, had no trouble identifying the body. "Yes, that's her," he said with certainty and no other visible emotion. "I'd recognize that petulant face no matter how many bullet holes they put in it." 

"You don't seem too upset over your stepmother's death," Goren observed.

"Monica was a horrible human being. I'm not surprised someone finally got this sick of her. And no, honestly I can't bring myself to pretend to be sorry."

"Really, because some people might think you're acting a little...suspicious," Eames said.

"I didn't kill her. God knows I wanted to kill that bitch, but I didn't."

"She married your dad at the end of his life, disinherited you. And she was younger than you, too, which meant you'd probably never get a penny of your father's money if you lost the lawsuit you were fighting against her. An expensive lawsuit, as I understand. Her death cleans that mess up pretty well," she continued. "Gives you one heck of a motive."

"If I wanted her dead, I would have made it look like an accident. Probably one of her boytoys got tired of her dallying."

"Did she ever...dally with you?" Goren asked. "Her young, attractive stepson?"

Cameron Smith scoffed. "Even if she was interested, there was something about her scowl I found strangely _un_enticing."

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Smith. I'm sure we'll be in touch with you again soon," Goren said.

He nodded at them, and left.

Goren and Eames looked down at Monica Smith's body. "I don't think he did it," Goren said. "I think he seriously considered putting a hit out on his stepmother, but I don't think he would have let anyone else get caught in the crossfire."

"Maybe not," Eames said. "He wouldn't have been quite so open if he didn't think he had a solid alibi, but he could have easily hired someone."

"Still...we should look into her...'boytoys' and anyone else she may have had emotional ties to."

"And check her financial records. With as much money as she inherited, someone besides her stepson could have had a stake in her death."

"A bullet to the gut is a bit too personal for a money motive."

"Some people take money very personally."

He brought his hand to his chin and rubbed his thumb against his lips.

Eames tilted her head to watch him. It wasn't the first time she'd noticed him doing that. She wondered if it was just something he did while he was thinking or if it was some kind of self-calming technique.

"The killer wanted to watch her suffer," Goren said. "That takes a lot of anger." He started to walk past Eames, and paused at her shoulder to say, "It _wasn't _about money."

* * *

Their next stop was Monica's mansion, an ostentatious brick building on Staten Island.

"There's no accounting for taste," Eames mumbled when the housekeeper let them in.

"Actually there is," Goren countered. "She displays obviously expensive furnishings and decorations...without consideration to the entire effect. She...is proud of the wealth she's inherited, but she's blind to the...refinements of wealth. New money." He shrugged. "For some people, conspicuous consumption provides a high. This is exactly the kind of decorating you'd expect from that type of personality."

Eames picked up a photo of Monica and her late husband. "He looks happy," she said of the elderly man. "She looks impatient."

They didn't find anything helpful until they reached her bedroom. On her nightstand was a small pink leather book. Eames opened it. "Men's names, addresses, and phone numbers. Looks like her stepson wasn't kidding about Monica's boytoys."

"The books on her shelf..." Goren shook his head disapprovingly. "She has a few hardcover classics, but they don't look like they've ever been opened. Fashion magazines, self-help books, high school yearbooks..."

"Does her terrible taste in books really help the investigation?" Eames asked with an amused smile.

"It helps us get an idea of the kind of person she was, which may tell us why someone wanted to kill her."

"Shall we put out an APB on hostile librarians and college professors?" she asked sarcastically as she dropped the address book into an evidence bag.

Their search didn't yield anything more illuminating. As they were wrapping up, Goren got a call.

"Goren...You found something?...Really?...We'll be there in an hour." He turned to Eames. "That was the ME," he said. "She has a surprise for us."


	4. Cause of Death

Chapter 4: Cause of Death

The two detectives entered the chill recesses of the morgue, where a middle-aged woman with short dark red hair and a tired-looking, impassive face looked up from the corpse she'd been working on.

"Some case you've brought me," she said in her characteristic bored tone as Goren and Eames approached her. "A cab driver, a lawyer, and a trophy widow: I can't wait to hear the punchline."

Goren smiled at her joke. "Doctor Rogers, this is Detective Alex Eames. Eames, Doctor Elizabeth Rogers."

"We've met," the two women said simultaneously.

"Oh." Goren sounded a little sheepish, then changed the subject. "You said you found something interesting?"

"Craig Hart." She pulled out the late lawyer's body. "The preliminary cause of death turned out to be inaccurate."

"The gunshot wound to the forehead isn't what did him in?" Eames asked.

Rogers looked at Goren. "I'm surprised you missed this one, Detective. If you'd looked as close as you usually do you would have noticed that the gunshot was inflicted post-mortem."

Goren lurched toward the body while pulling on gloves in his haste to see what he'd missed. Roger's folded her arms and watched him. "You're his new partner?" she asked Eames.

"Yeah."

"Lucky you."

"You're right," Goren concluded after a moment. "I didn't even think to look."

"Maybe you were distracted by something," Rogers said a little mockingly.

He examined the man's eyes and mouth. "He was poisoned, wasn't he?"

"Looks like it. No puncture wound or rash, so the poison was probably ingested. The tox screen isn't back yet."

Goren stood back and blinked, thinking deeply.

"The only reason to shoot a dead man is hoping that no one would look for the real cause of death," Eames speculated.

"Someone with no medical background, no background in law enforcement. But it's more than that. Monica Smith was shot first, but Craig Hart had to be poisoned before he got in the cab." His head moved in small, irregular circles as he spoke, like he was a marionette being handled by an inexperienced puppeteer. "They were both targeted. The killer knew both of them. And probably knew the cab driver, too." He looked over at Eames. "If we find out how these three people came to be in the same place at the same time..."

"We might find out who killed them," Eames finished.

* * *

They entered Craig Hart's office, which hadn't been touched since his disappearance. 

"He had three appointments that morning, a teleconference scheduled for two p.m., but no reason to be leaving the office at noon," Eames said, reading from his planner.

Goren looked over the desk, which was meticulously organized except for a single pen that had rolled behind the computer keyboard, and the chair, which was at an angle and pushed back. "He left in a hurry. He left when he started getting sick." He leaned over the desk with his hands behind his back and sniffed. Then he looked in the trashcan beside the desk. He pulled out a take-out box, with Craig Hart's name and the address of his office written on the top.

"Didn't the secretary say Hart ordered out a lot?"

"Yeah," Eames replied, double-checking her notes.

"Looks like he did on Monday, too, from Kaur's India Cuisine." He opened the box and began poking through the remnants of what smelled like an extremely spicy curry. He fished out a small chunk of a light greyish vegetable. "Can you get me a tissue, please?"

Eames complied, then watched curiously as he daubed the chunk clean, then sniffed it cautiously before putting it in an evidence bag. He turned toward her with an expression she hadn't seen before: a little bit sad, a little bit disgusted. "Water hemlock, one of the most poisonous plants in North America. They need to check for cicutoxin in the tox screen."

"And in the meantime, we should go to that restaurant and find out who poisoned the curry."

* * *

Kaur's India Cuisine was a clean, aromatic, extremely busy place. Eames and Goren identified themselves at the front desk, and a minute later they were joined by an attractive older woman with grey streaks in her thick, dark brown hair, and an imperious demeanor and tone. "I'm Kaur, and I assure you myself and my staff will help you with your investigation in any way possible." 

"How often does Craig Hart order from your restaurant?" Goren asked.

It wasn't the first question Eames expected him to ask, but Kaur answered it quickly.

"Two or three times a week. He's one of our many regulars."

Eames asked the next question. "Where do you keep the food before it's delivered?"

"Here." Kaur led them to a long table near the back door, where a number of take-out boxes were lined up, complete with the names and addresses of their destinations.

"Anyone could have come in and poisoned Hart's order," Eames noted.

"But why would they?" Kaur retorted defensively. "If we saw anyone we didn't recognize in this room, they would be in trouble, but we can't very well keep this room locked when we have delivery boys coming in and out every few minutes. We're not paranoid, and surely there are easier ways to kill someone."

"Do you have a security camera for this room?" she questioned.

"Not for this room - we don't keep anything valuable in here - but there is one watching the entrance outside."

"We'll need to see the footage from Monday morning," said Goren.

In a room behind the kitchen, television screens showed grainy security footage from the front foyer, the dining room, and the exits. Kaur found the requested video.

"All of my people are in uniform," she explained as she fastforwarded through the tape. "Here. I don't recognize this person."

The time index read "23 07 01 10:54." The person in the video wasn't in any kind of uniform. He or she was dressed in a thick coat with a hat obscuring the face. The person looked resolutely away from the camera, disappeared inside quickly, then left a minute later at a near run.

"We'll have to keep this to examine more closely," Goren told Kaur.

"Right."

Eames added, "And you might want to think about keeping a better eye on your place. This time it was just a murder, next time it might be a lawsuit."

Kaur smiled, slightly irritated. "Of course."

* * *

"Anyone could have found out Hart ordered from that restaurant," Eames commented. 

"But the killer had to know he'd ordered out that day. Hart arrived at the office at six. Phone records showed he called the restaurant at 10:17. There's no possible way the killer could have gone from his office to the restaurant in that time."

"Are you suggesting the killer wasn't working alone?"

"Maybe."

She shook her head. "I don't think so. The person on the security video matches the description of the killer. If he wasn't working alone, different people would have poisoned the curry and done the shooting. As it was, the killer was taking a chance to get to that street corner in time to steal the cab. But Kaur was right: that's a lot of trouble to go through to kill someone."

"Well, the killer was showing off. It's someone who enjoys challenges, someone who considers himself very intelligent. But...he's also insecure. A loner."

"We might not have a name, prints, or a physical description, but at least we'll recognize him when we see his self-help book collection."

Goren smiled at her, then his smile drained away. He looked distracted. "Craig Hart's secretary said he ordered out when he had a busy schedule..."

"Something like that. Why?"

"The killer knew he would order out. It might have been a client or a coworker: someone who knew he would be busy."

Eames nodded. "I'll find out if anyone in his office or on his client list was missing Monday morning."


	5. Meet the Suspects

Chapter 5: Meet the Suspects

Thursday, July 26.

There was a mess of notepaper spread out on Eames' desk. She was scribbling on one as she held the phone between her shoulder and her ear.

Goren almost mirrored her at his desk. "Yeah...What time?...Thanks." He added a name and time to a graph he was drawing.

"Really? Thank you." Eames hung up her phone and looked over at Goren. "You may have been right about the killer having an accomplice: the dispatcher at Yusuf Pasha's cab company says a woman called on Monday morning and specifically requested Pasha to pick up someone matching Monica Smith's description outside the Eleventh Avenue Mall."

Deakins walked up. "Goren, can I talk to you in my office for a minute?"

Goren glanced at Eames. She nodded her permission, then went back to her phone as Goren went to Deakins' office. A couple of minutes later, the Captain called her in as well.

"A lot of people are asking me about the progress we're making on this triple homicide. Anything you can tell me so far?"

"Well, we don't think the killer was working alone," Goren began. "A man claiming to be employed by Cameron Smith's attorney left a message on Monica Smith's voice mail saying her stepson wanted to discuss a deal, and said he'd send a cab to pick her up at the north entrance of Eleventh Avenue Mall..."

"Cameron Smith and his attorney deny they were even thinking about making a deal," Eames added. "And the message for Monica included picking up Cameron's attorney outside the DeForest and Gupta Lawfirm office, which is nowhere near where Cameron's attorney works."

"And a woman called Pasha's cab company asking for him specifically to pick up Monica," Goren said.

Eames spoke up again. "And Cameron Smith was busy at his work all Monday. Dozens of witnesses. Plus he's given us complete access to his financial records and there's absolutely no evidence he hired someone to kill Monica."

"I talked to a friend of mine at the State Department who looked into Yusuf Pasha's old acquaintances. None of them have been to the United States or contacted anyone in the United States. I'm still waiting to hear back about the man who threatened him after the trial, but it doesn't look likely. And we haven't found any evidence that any of the victims knew each other before Monday. They ran in completely different circles."

"Everyone at Hart's office was accounted for. Two people called in sick Monday morning. One of them was with her boyfriend in Atlantic City and has the traffic ticket to prove it, the other one was actually sick and was in a doctor's office at the time of the murders."

Deakins looked from one detective to the other and back again. "Good job. You've eliminated about half the city as suspects. Next can I suggest you find some new ones to replace them?"

"It had to be someone who knew Hart's schedule," Goren stated. "A client or a coworker. Someone who knew when he would be eating lunch."

"Good. Go find out who had that information. Eames, can I talk to you for a minute?"

Neither of them spoke until Goren had returned to his desk. "What is it?" Eames asked.

Deakins rubbed his chin and shifted his feet before asking, "How do you like working with Detective Goren?"

"It's okay," she answered. "We're still working each other out."

He nodded, looking a little relieved. "That's basically what he said."

"Anything else, Captain?"

"No. Just don't be afraid to come to me if you have any concerns."

"Don't worry; I won't."

"It looks like you're working well together," he commented.

She shrugged slightly. "Pretty well."

"Keep it up," he exhorted.

She went back to her desk. Goren was deeply involved in a telephone conversation, which he wrapped up as she approached.

"Learn something interesting?" she asked.

He looked up at her, blinking like he was dazed, and it once again struck her how deceptively unintelligent he looked. "What do you make of an attorney keeping forged financial documents in a safe deposit box?"

"Um..." she blinked and shook her head. "I have no idea. How do they know they're forged?"

"There are multiple copies of the same documents, each with different dates."

"Was it Craig Hart?"

"Yes. He had the account under his lawfirm's name, but they claim they had no idea he had them."

"I suppose you have some idea what they were for?"

"No," he said, completely unashamed to admit ignorance, "but I know someone who might. One of my old partners has a degree in business law."

* * *

They walked into a police office in Manhattan. Goren carried a manila envelope stuffed with copies of the forged documents. His step slowed, very deliberately, and he allowed Eames to get several paces ahead of him. 

She approached a man at a desk. He stood up when he saw her. "Detective Eames, what brings you...Goren!" Detective Raub said in surprise when he saw his former partner.

"Hello, Raub," Goren greeted him with a pleasant smile. He didn't miss the contrite expression his current and last partners shared.

"We have some papers Goren thinks you might be able to help us with," Eames explained.

Raub looked questioningly at Goren.

"They may be evidence in a murder case," Goren explained.

"Let me take a look at them," Raub said, intrigued.

They borrowed an empty interrogation room and spread the documents over the table. Raub looked over them, thumbed through them, shook his head.

"What do you make of it?" Goren asked tentatively.

"It's illegal, whatever it is."

"These were found in the possession of a murdered lawyer," Eames supplied.

"If I were feeling peevish, I'd suggest.he was faking evidence to win a lawsuit."

Eames squinted at the papers. "How?"

"I'm not really sure...these are order forms and invoices for materials in the quantities you'd want for testing stages in product development. They could be used as evidence in court cases on patent infringements, intellectual property theft, corporate espionage..." He shook his head again, bewildered. "That's the only reason I can think of to have multiple copies with different dates."

Goren nodded thoughtfully. "One of the meetings he had the morning he was killed was with a legal representative from a company called Wargrave Technologies. I looked into them. They design electronic equipment."

"What kind of dealings did they have with the dead lawyer?"

"He was representing a company they were trying to sue: Sightning Electronics."

"That could be it," Raub said with a shrug.

Goren gathered up the papers. "Thanks for your help," he said. "Call me sometime. Maybe we can grab a drink."

"I will."

Eames stayed in the room a moment after Goren left. "Thank you," she said.

"Anytime. How're you doing with Goren?"

"So far, so good."

He smiled. "Glad to hear it. Have you seen him do an interrogation yet?"

"No."

"Oh." Raub's voice was suddenly tight. He'd been hoping for a different answer. He didn't sound like he wanted to say why he'd asked.

"I'll see you around," Eames said, then followed her partner.

* * *

Goren sat at his desk, pouring over documents relating to the lawsuit Hart had been working on. Eames set a cup of coffee in front of him. 

"Thanks," he mumbled.

"What have you found?" she asked as she sat at her own desk and blew on her coffee.

"Wargrave Technologies had a motive. And they could have known Hart's schedule. They had five meetings with him in the last two weeks."

"Sightning Electronics could have known his schedule, too."

"But they had no motive. Every indication was that Hart would win the lawsuit for them. They..." he put the paper he was reading down so he could gesture with his hands while he talked. "Wargrave was suing Sightning for stealing a design for a pollutant sensor from them and patenting it before they could. Sightning is a bigger, older, more financially secure company...that could afford better legal representation. They're countersuing Wargrave, claiming that the first suit was fraudulent. If Sightning wins the lawsuit, Wargrave goes bankrupt, and Sightning makes millions."

"That is a good motive."

"But one thing still doesn't make sense..."

"The other victims. Pasha and Smith had nothing to do with the lawsuit."

"And the way Hart was killed. Cicutoxin poisoning is...extremely painful...and the killer went through a lot of trouble to be able to watch the victims die. That's...vindictive. Personal."

"This is still the best lead we have yet. We should look into Wargrave's employees."

"I agree," he said quickly, like he was trying to reassure her. "We should start with the ones who met with Craig Hart. They would be most likely to have known what restaurant he ordered lunch from."

* * *

Friday, July 27. 

The first interview was with Wargrave Technologies' president, Eugenia Crespo, and their lawyer, Mark Zupan. Crespo was a tall, skinny woman with dyed-blond hair arranged in a careful twist. Her face was long and deeply wrinkled. She wore an impeccable pantsuit. Mark Zupan was small, with short-cropped black hair. He leaned forward with his hands folded on the desk.

"Thank you for meeting with us, Ms. Crespo," Eames said politely.

"Against my better judgment. If you think anyone at Wargrave Technologies is responsible for Mr. Hart's murder, you're wasting your time and taxpayers' money."

Eames tried to think of a response that wouldn't be insulting.

Goren spoke first. "Mr. Zupan," he began, "you met with Craig Hart on Monday morning. You were one of the last people to see him alive."

"If you're suggesting Mark killed him, he didn't," Crespo insisted.

"We know you didn't kill him," Eames said to Zupan. "The killer was poisoning his curry while you were talking to him. We just want to know who knew you were meeting with him that morning."

"Anyone in the office could have found out. Everyone's following the lawsuit," he said.

Goren leaned forward. "Did anyone ask you about your meeting? Did anyone ask you to arrange a meeting with Craig Hart that morning?"

"No. He suggested the meeting times. He always did. No way Craig Hart would stoop to letting someone else call the shots."

"He was...aggressive."

"He was a law prima donna. So cocky. He could quote legal code like a preacher quotes the Bible, and if he ever made a mistake he would have died before admitting it."

"Maybe that's exactly what he did," said Eames. "Did you know he was fabricating evidence to strengthen his client's case?"

Crespo stood suddenly. "He _what_! Of course not! If we'd known we would have done something about it!"

"Well, someone _did _do something about it," she pointed out. "Where were you Monday morning, Ms. Crespo?"

"I was home, packing a picnic for my grandchildren, with my husband."

Goren nodded with his head tilted at a slight angle. "A picnic with your grandchildren. That's very considerate...for someone as busy as you are to take time for your family."

Crespo stared at him icily. "It was my grandson's birthday, and I don't like what you're implying. If all you're going to do here is level accusations, I think you should leave. If you really think someone at Wargrave Technologies killed Craig Hart, come back with a warrant."

"Ms. Crespo, wait," Zupan said diffidently. "If we don't let them conduct all the interviews they need now, that will make us look suspicious. We know no one here killed him, so it's best to let them get this avenue of investigation out of the way."

"Fine," she sighed. "Do your interviews. But the productivity of my company had better not be impaired."

"One more thing," Goren added before they left the room. "Did you know if anyone working at your company knew Yusuf Pasha or Monica Smith."

"Not that I know of. But I don't keep track of my employees' personal lives. Why?"

"We're just trying to cover our bases. Thank you. We'll try to stay out of your way."

* * *

The next interview was with Christy Van Holt, the engineer who designed the disputed product. 

"I don't know how much I can help you. I didn't know Mr. Hart that well," she said.

"You met with him last Thursday?" Eames asked.

"Mark and I did, yes."

"Where were you Monday morning?" she continued.

"Here. In my office. I got in at nine."

"Did anyone see you?"

She thought for a moment. "I saw Meagan...I think she saw me. And I passed Mr. Lesage at the vending machines. Then I came to my office and closed the door. I like privacy when I work," she added almost apologetically.

"Have you ever met either of these people?" Goren asked as he pushed a couple of photos in front of her. "Monica Smith or Yusuf Pasha?"

"I saw Monica Smith a couple of times on TV, but that's it."

Goren looked around her office, which was cluttered with sketchpads, electronic equipment, books, and models. "Mr. Zupan said everyone was following the lawsuit. I bet no one's more concerned with it than you."

"I'm not the one losing the most money," she responded.

"But it was your invention that's at issue. If your company loses the lawsuit, it amounts to saying you're a plagiarist. It could ruin your career, your reputation."

Van Holt nodded reluctantly. "That's true. But I didn't steal the design, so I was pretty sure we'd eventually win the lawsuit."

"But still, it must have made you...very angry to have your talents called into question."

"Yes, I admit it did."

"You hated him."

She sighed. "Yes. But I hate Sightning Electronics more, and whoever stole my design. I didn't hate Mr. Hart enough to kill him."

"Can you think of anyone who did?" Eames asked.

"No. I mean, everyone here hates him, but I don't think any of us would be capable of murder."

"Everyone hated him?"

"Naturally. Mr. Olsen even threatened him the other day."

Eames' eyebrows raised. "Threatened him?"

"In front of everyone. Mr. Hart dropped by unexpectedly to request some documents. Mr. Olsen said if he set foot in our office again, he didn't want to know what would happen to him." She hastily added, "It was just talk. Mr. Olsen wouldn't actually have killed him. Especially not after threatening him in front of so many witnesses."

"Was he here Monday morning?"

"I think so. He's here every day. He runs this company while Mrs. Crespo is out socializing with investors. Believe me, if he'd been missing, everyone would have known."

* * *

Darius Olsen, the vice president and senior manager of Wargrave Technologies, looked down at his desk nervously as the two detectives questioned him. He was a chubby man in his forties with thick, dark brown hair and grey eyes. Every minute or so, his hand would reach up to brush real or imagined locks of hair away from his forehead. 

"Yes, I threatened Craig Hart, but it was just talk. You know...and anyway he never came back here, so..."

"Can anyone vouch that you were here Monday morning?"

"Yes. And anyway you can check the security cameras. I was here."

"Mr. Olsen, you keep glancing at your file cabinet. Is there a reason you're doing that?"

"No."

"Is there something in there you don't want us to see?" Goren pressed.

"Of course not."

"Do you mind if we take a look?" Eames asked.

"Yes, I'm afraid I do mind. You'll need a warrant if you want to go fingering through my office."

A smile flickered on Goren's lips, unnoticed by both Olsen and Eames. Their witness was posturing, trying to put them on the defensive. Telling.

"And you're sure you've never met Monica Smith or Yusuf Pasha?" Eames asked.

"I've already answered your questions. What else do you expect me to be able to tell you?"

Goren asked, "Was there anyone who wasn't here on Monday morning? Anyone who called in late, or didn't show up?"

"No. Everyone clocked in to work that morning, just like most mornings. There are only fifteen employees working here. Not hard to keep track of everyone."

"Since you do know everyone so well, who do you think would be most likely to kill someone? Just hypothetically."

Olsen stared at him. "Are you kidding? I would fire anyone if I thought they were capable of murder."

"You're telling me no one here is short tempered or has a history of violence?"

"I can't think of anyone."

Goren smiled. "You looked to the side when you said that." He tilted his head and leaned in. "You did think of someone, didn't you, Darius?"

He turned away, paced to his window, rubbed his head. "Our security guard, Harvey Stone. Let's just say he has a short fuse."

"You think he might have killed Hart?" Eames questioned.

"No, but that's not what you asked."

* * *

Harvey Stone was a lanky man with sandy blond hair and a craggy face. He perched in his chair, perfectly still but for his eyes, which shifted from one detective to the other as they spoke. 

"Detective Eames?" he asked after they introduced themselves. "Any relation to John Eames?"

"My father," she confirmed.

"I worked with him once. Good cop."

"You were an officer?" Goren asked.

"Yeah. I took an early retirement after an accusation of brutality. I was guilty as charged, but I guarantee you would have done the same in my situation."

"One of your coworkers told us you have a short fuse," Eames said.

His eyes flicked to her. "I don't take no crap from no one. Some people think it's the same thing."

"I get that," Goren said sympathetically. "Some people think people become cops because we're too dumb to be anything else. That we're all brawn and no brain."

"Yeah. Exactly. And I can tell you, security guard is even worse. When people do notice me, they look down their noses at me. Or I make them nervous."

"When people don't notice you, I bet you notice them. You're sitting here every day, watching them come and go, getting to know their habits. Did...did ya notice anyone acting different lately? Especially on Monday morning?"

"Now that you mention it, Monday morning was a little strange."

Goren tilted his head curiously. "How do you mean?"

He took a deep, audible breath through his nose before answering. "The way this building's architecture is set up, with narrow halls and lots of corners, it's not hard to not be seen if you don't want to be. Darius Olsen, Christy Van Holt, and Meagan Cole...they came in early and then I didn't see them. I thought they might have been avoiding me, but then later I found out they were all busy working things out for the lawsuit. Lucy Franco came in late. Really late...I'd already had my lunch break. She said she would stay later to make up her work and didn't want me to tell Darius."

"That's...very helpful, Mr. Stone. One more thing." He brought out the photos. "Have you ever seen either of these people come here? Or heard their names mentioned? Yusuf Pasha and Monica Smith. They're the other victims who were killed with Craig Hart."

"No. They've never been here. Not that I've seen."

* * *

Lucy Franco, a small, dark woman with large eyes, glanced up from her desk. "I was late because my son was sick. I had to take him to the doctor's office. But then he got better, so I dropped him off at school and came in to work." 

Eames glanced at Goren, wondering if they were really going to waste more time questioning her. She didn't match the description of either the shooter or the poisoner.

Goren kept his eyes on the witness. "Are you the only secretary in the office, Mrs. Franco?"

"Yes...and it's Miss Franco."

"You must know everything that goes on around here. You know...everyone's habits and quirks."

"I wish. Half the people in the office won't give me the time of day."

"But still, you notice them. Did you notice anything suspicious on Monday?"

"Well, someone borrowed the company car without signing the log."

His eyebrows rose. "Really? When?"

"I don't know when. The key is kept...right here," she pointed to a car key hanging from a peg on the wall behind her, next to a log asking for the name, date, and time in and out. "It was gone when I got in on Monday, and was back on Tuesday morning."

* * *

They circled the company car, a silver sedan, in the parking lot under the building. Lucy opened the door. "I don't think you'll find anything. It was as clean on Tuesday as it had been the last time I saw it." 

Goren leaned over the driver's seat and peered at the floor.

"What are you looking for?" Lucy asked.

"Blood. Dirt. Something."

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

Goren, Eames, and Lucy turned to see Eugenia Crespo march up to them.

"They think the guy who killed Mr. Hart might have used our car," Lucy explained meekly. "I was trying to help."

"No killer used our company car," Crespo snapped. "Lucy, you should be at your desk, working. You two," she stared icily at the detectives. "I let you question my employees on the condition you wouldn't interfere with business. I want you out. And if you come back, you'd better have a warrant."

"It would get us out of your hair a lot faster if you let us see any security footage you have for this garage," Eames said.

"We don't have any security footage, and if we did, I wouldn't let you see that without a warrant, either. Now get out of that car before I sue you."

As Goren and Eames walked away, Eames said, "I'd hate to say it, but we don't have near enough for a warrant."

"Yet," he said. As they walked out of the garage entrance, he pointed across the street. "An ATM."

* * *

Back at 1PP again, they went over the footage from the ATM's security camera. 

"So do you think Wargrave Technologies is connected?" Deakins asked from over their shoulders.

"They weren't exactly cooperative. For all we know, it could have been a company effort."

"They're definitely trying to hide something," Goren added. "Here. The company car left at 9:08 a.m."

"Can you tell who's driving it?" Deakins inquired.

"No. The windows are tinted."

"Of course, there's no way to connect the car to the killer without forensics. No one saw the killer near any car but the taxi."

"But the killer had to have their own car to get from Kaur's India Cuisine to DeForest and Gupta's lawfirm in time," Eames said.

"Unless different people did each job," Deakins reminded them.

Goren stooped to get closer to the fuzzy ATM footage. "The car came back at 2:32 p.m."

"Still not enough for a warrant."

"I just need to know I'm on the right track," Goren stated.


	6. The Scheme

Chapter 6: The Scheme

Monday, July 30.

Deakins looked up from his desk at the sound of a tapping on his door. He saw the petite form of Detective Eames through the glass. "Come in," he called.

She entered hesitantly. "Do you have a moment?"

"I do for you. You're early."

"Traffic. It was light for a change. I want to ask you something."

Deakins waited expectantly for a moment, then prompted her, "About Goren?"

"He seems like an okay guy."

"He is."

"So why can't he keep a partner?"

Deakins sighed as he tried to think of an answer.

Eames spoke again before he could. "Tell me about his interrogation style."

"He's the best," Deakins answered immediately. "The best interrogator I've ever worked with. He figures out the suspect, and employed whatever techniques he decides will get results."

"I've heard about it. Not all good things."

He thought for several seconds, and chose his words carefully. "Empathy," he said. "He doesn't just know what a suspect thinks, he _feels _what the suspect feels. He knows why they did it, and that lets him understand exactly what to tell them to get them to confess. It gets some people worried."

"Is it something I should be worried about?"

"What makes you ask that?"

"If I'm going to be his partner, I think it's something I need to know."

Deakins shook his head. "Don't let him scare you, Eames. He's harmless."

She smiled with a thoughtful look in her eyes. "You've read my file: nothing scares me."

He looked over her shoulder. "Good."

She turned and saw Goren coming toward the office. "I should get to work," she said, and left.

Goren watched her as they passed. "What was that about?" he asked Deakins.

"She was asking about you."

He nodded, unsurprised.

"She's a good cop, Goren," Deakins said.

"I know. I read her file."

"You of all people know the file isn't the whole story. You know, her superiors in Vice hated to let her go, but did because they knew what an asset she would be to Major Case."

"What are you getting at, Captain?" he asked, even though he already had a good idea.

"Try to play nice with this one."

Goren shook his head vaguely. "My methods...get results. Is my partner turnover rate more important than my solve rate?"

"Point taken," Deakins conceded.

When Goren returned to his desk, he examined his new partner again. So she was a good cop. There were lots of good cops. What was he missing?

She looked up at him. "I just read the record of former Officer Harvey Stone. He was forced into retirement after beating up a suspected gang leader in interrogation, after the suspect threatened and insulted his partner."

"Brash. Impulsive," Goren noted. "Not like our killer at all. Our killer planned the murder very carefully. It wasn't him."

She nodded along with his assessment. "I got the background checks on every current employee of Wargrave Technologies. Do you want to split them up?"

"Yeah."

She dropped half the files on Goren's desk. "If you get done before I do, I could use some more coffee."

Goren looked through a few records. "Here's Darius Olsen, vice president and department coordinator. No criminal record. Fourty-four years old, married with three children."

"So he's definitely got a financial motive," Eames said dryly. "What are you smirking at?"

"You're funny," he explained.

"You finally noticed?" She flicked her eyes back to the file in front of her. "Christy Van Holt. Single, no kids. Arrested for drug possession in college."

"Here's one: Thomas Lesage; possession and assault."

"No more criminal records in this pile," Eames said.

"Meagan Cole, the accountant, has a sealed juvenile record. And served in the Army."

The phone on Eames' desk rang. She snatched it up. "Detective Eames, Major Case," she answered. She said "Thanks" and hung up a moment later, then went to the fax machine. "I'm getting tax statements and public record info on Wargrave faxed over. The company's only been around for three years; it shouldn't take long."

An hour later, after unsuccessfully searching the documents for any glimmer of suspicious activity, Eames tossed her stack aside. "I think we can safely conclude that protecting Wargrave Tech's deep dark tax-evasion secret wasn't the motive."

Goren nodded and put down their latest earnings statement, which he'd been over three times. "Are you hungry?" he asked. "Because...there's a decent deli across the street, if you want to grab an early lunch."

"Lunch does sound good," she agreed.

* * *

They sat near the window of the Santorini Deli, where they had a good view of One Police Plaza. 

"We've been partners for a whole week," Eames noted before taking a bite of her fish-fillet-on-sourdough.

"I think that deserves a toast," Goren said. They clicked their coffee mugs together.

Eames smiled and looked out the window. "It would be a shame if we don't solve our first case together."

"They don't give Major Case the easy ones," he reminded her.

She nodded. "You know, Eugenia Crespo: I don't like her, but I can't imagine her standing at a street corner in rags waiting to kill someone. I don't think she did it."

"She could have organized it, but I agree she wouldn't have done the dirty work."

"I'm still not sure there wasn't just one killer. He or she could've hired someone to make the other phone call. And had plenty of time to get from the office to the restaurant to Hart's office."

"You may be right. The killer wanted to watch them suffer. It wasn't the kind of person who would hire someone else to inflict that suffering. If the killer had an accomplice, it was a collaborative effort, not a hired killer."

"And the killer didn't care about getting caught. He hung around long enough that someone could've easily gotten a good look at him, then he let the victims die slowly, risked damaging the getaway car by running over Pasha, not to mention killing three people at once, three people who each would have guaranteed media attention for the murder...it almost seems suicidal."

"Not suicidal; a thrill-seeker and a megalomaniac. Someone who wanted to prove they were smart enough to pull it off...and someone who enjoys killing..." He spoke with sudden amazement. His eyes became distracted. "Someone who knew they would enjoy killing. This might not have been this person's first murder."

Eames watched him. "You really solve cases like this? By guessing at the perp's life story by how they do the crime?"

"It's not that simple." He struggled to explain. "Everything people do reveals something. Everything they say...the way they say it...what they don't say. The things they do, the way they...move...says something about them. They do it for a reason, even if they don't know the reason, or even realize they're doing it."

"And you understand those reasons even when they don't?" she questioned.

He sighed, and shrugged. "It's what I do," he offered feebly.

The smile she gave him then somehow reminded him of a wolf. "Whatever you say, genius."

He winced. He hated being called that.

She brought the conversation back to the suspects. "Darius Olsen is definitely hiding something. But I can't really imagine him holding his lunch after killing three people like that."

"I wouldn't count him out. He's ambitious, and organized. I can see him worrying about the company enough to kill for it. Christy Van Holt," Goren continued. "She might have been upset enough over the accusations of plagiarism to kill Hart, but she thinks analytically, and would have trusted the poison and the laws of cause and effect to kill him. She wouldn't have felt the need to watch him die."

"The lawyer could have done it. Mark Zupan. If he found out the hotshot Craig Hart was going to do whatever he had to do to win his clients the lawsuit, Zupan could have killed him out of anger or jealousy."

Goren nodded. "Did ya notice how eager to please he was? He was trying to keep both us and his boss happy; he was trying to compromise, to mediate. He could have killed Hart, and killed Smith and Pasha to draw suspicion away from Wargrave Technologies, but he wouldn't have done it unless someone else told him to."

"Not to mention that he was in a meeting with Hart while someone else was poisoning his curry. Olsen looks good for it," Eames mused. "If I were placing bets at this stage in the game, my money's on him."

"It will be hard to prove it, or find out what he's hiding, with Crespo keeping us away from his office."

Eames put down her sandwich and rested her chin on her fist. "She may be trying to keep us away because she did it. Or she really thinks none of her employees are involved in it. Or she thinks one of her employees is involved in it and she's trying to protect him. It would be a lot easier if she thought we suspected Olsen, and she had a reason not to trust him either."

Goren stared at her with a strange, distracted smile. "Olsen runs the company behind Crespo's back. If we let her believe he's trying to cut her out, and that we might solve her problem if we arrest Olsen for murder, she may be more cooperative."

"My thoughts exactly. We're gonna need a game plan."

* * *

"I recall telling you not to come back without a warrant," Eugenia Crespo stated. 

"We're having some trouble with that," Goren said. "But we're...almost positive the killer was driving your company car, and we have another lead linking the murders to Wargrave. To be honest, it's going to look a lot better for you and your company if you cooperate with us now."

"I'm surprised you're not happy to let us help you," Eames said.

"Help me? In what way is investigating my company in connection with a murder 'helping' me?"

Goren answered. "Well...Darius Olsen. Your employees told us how he tries to undermine you, tries to usurp your authority when you're out of the office."

"And his financial records are, frankly, a little fishy," Eames added.

Goren leaned forward and lowered his voice. "He fits the description of the killer. And he was obviously worried we'd find something incriminating in his office while we were questioning him. We don't have enough to arrest him yet."

"We were wondering if you've noticed him acting suspiciously lately."

They fell to silence and waited as Crespo re-evaluated her vice president. Then she straightened up. "I've never heard a complaint against him. He seems to be a model manager."

"That's strange," Goren said. He turned to Eames as though he were speaking to her, though his words were meant for Crespo. "Have you ever had a supervisor who no one in your department hated?"

"Only one. But once he worked his way up to Captain he became a real hard-ass. By the time we realized he was just a sleazeball trying to sweet-talk his way up the chain of command, it was too late."

"All right," Crespo suddenly said. "You can search Darius' office, but I want both him and our lawyer supervising."

* * *

"If you tell us what you're looking for, this would go a lot faster," Mr. Zupan told them. 

"Why don't _you _tell us what we should be looking for," Goren suggested facetiously.

"Embezzled funds, drugs, kiddie porn. What you got?" Eames asked in Olsen's general direction.

"Nothing," he said emphatically. "Look wherever you want, you won't find anything illegal in my office. And I _didn't _kill Craig Hart."

"We hear you were a little elusive the morning of the murder," Eames said. "In fact, no one we talked to can remember seeing you between nine a.m. and five p.m. Where were you all that time?"

"I was here, catching up on some paperwork. The lawsuit has put a lot of extra strain on our resources."

Goren was looking through the file cabinets. "I can tell you're a busy guy. A small start-up company like this, everyone's got a lot of hats to wear, am I right?"

"Exactly right. And no one's busier around here than I am."

"That's got to put a strain on your family life," Eames noted as she fingered through the papers in his desk. "Do your wife and kids ever get to see you?"

"I make time for them, of course. They're the most important things in my life. What does my family have to do with the murder?"

Eames looked up with a half-raised eyebrow. "Just making conversation. You don't have to get all snooty about it."

"Look, I couldn't have killed Mr. Hart because I was here all day. Check the security tapes. I went to the vending machines to get a snack at about eleven, so the camera in the hallway should have gotten me. Check it."

"We'll do that," Goren said. "Eames, we won't find anything here. Let's let Mr. Olsen get back to work."

As they walked out of Olsen's office, he leaned closer to her and whispered. "There were empty files in his cabinet that had smudges where papers used to be. He cleaned house after we talked to him."

"I guess he didn't trust Crespo to keep the cops away."

"I'm not sure he's the murderer, but that's someone with a guilty conscience."

"Let's check the security tapes."

* * *

They watched the security tape labeled for July 23rd. It was a quiet day. Only a few people passed through the hallway. Then, at 11:08 a.m., Darius Olsen came into view, got a bag of pretzels from the vending machine, then returned the way he came. 

"Looks like he's not our guy," Eames said.

"Maybe not." Goren paused the video at a point where no one was in the frame. He contemplated the scene with his fingers on his lips. "We passed that vending machine on Friday, and again this morning. It was almost empty. In this tape, it's full."

"Not even engineers could eat that much in five days," Eames agreed with his unspoken conclusion. "The tape could be fake. But he would have had to hack into the computer system to change the date and time. It might have left a record." She turned toward him. "Looks like we've got our grounds for a search warrant."

* * *

Tuesday, July 31. 

"I can't believe this," Eugenia Crespo said, shaking her head. "I can't believe Darius would kill someone. It makes no sense."

"They don't know he's the killer," Zupan assured her. "They're just following a lead. It will probably turn out to be nothing."

"Go ahead and believe that," Eames said. She tapped away at the computer in Wargrave Technologies' security office.

Goren blinked lazily at Crespo. "He's right. If you know anything that could clear him, now would be a good time to tell us."

She frowned. "I'm not even sure I know who Darius Olsen is any more."

"I found it," Eames announced. "The time on the security camera was changed on Tuesday, July _18th_ and changed back the next day."

"He was manufacturing an alibi a week before the murders. That was prudent," Goren joked.

* * *

He looked up when they walked into his office. He knew instantly something was wrong. "What are you doing?" he demanded. 

"Darius Olsen, you're under arrest for the murders of Craig Hart, Yusuf Pasha, and Monica Smith," Eames informed him as she clicked the handcuffs around his wrists.

"But..." he shook his head, "the security tapes..."

"Were faked. When you cover your tracks, make sure you finish the job. Otherwise it just makes you look more guilty."

Olsen looked up at Goren beseechingly. "I didn't do this," he whispered, near tears. "I'm not a murderer."

"Like I haven't heard that one before," Eames taunted as she pushed him out of the room.

Goren stayed for a moment and frowned. The fear in Olsen's eyes, he was almost sure, hadn't been fear of them.


	7. Implied

Chapter 7: Implied

The interrogation room felt so cold. Darius shivered. Tears pricked his eyes, but fortunately they didn't spill over.

"We know you faked the tape," Eames said.

He shook his head. "I had no idea about the tape. I swear."

"You told us exactly when it showed you going to the snack machine. That tells us you knew about the tape. You either made it or you know who did."

"You haven't found the real security tape from the morning of July 23rd," Mark Zupan, who was representing Olsen, pointed out. "As far as you know, he _did _go to the vending machine at the same time on both days. A lot of people have routines in their eating habits."

"And it's just a coincidence that the tape your client insisted would clear him turned out to be falsified?" Carver asked.

"Coincidences happen," Zupan replied.

Goren silently contemplated the suspect, trying to decide the best way to get him to give up what he knew.

Eames went with a more proactive approach. "Look Mr. Olsen, this is going to go a lot better for you if you cooperate with us. Why did you kill Hart? Was it just because of the lawsuit, or was it that he just really pissed you off?"

"I didn't kill Craig Hart. I swear, I didn't kill anyone."

"Then who did?"

Zupan whispered something in his ear. Olsen whispered something back. Zupan then looked up at them. "I want to talk to my client alone."

Eames, Carver, and Goren exited to the observation room.

"The faked video is a compelling piece of evidence, but I don't like the idea of relying on it to win my case for me," Carver said. "Detective Goren, this would be a good time for you to pull off one of your miracle confessions."

Goren was frowning. "I'm not sure about him yet," he said cryptically.

"Would he have gone through the trouble of killing Smith and Pasha if he was just trying to get Hart?" Eames wondered.

"Don't tell me you have doubts this is your killer," Carver said.

She hesitated before replying. "I'd feel a lot more confident if we could connect him to the other two."

Carver looked at Goren. "What do you think, Detective?"

"I agree with Eames." At Carver's expectant stare, he added, "But even if he didn't have a hand in the murder, he knows who did. I am sure of that."

"Then find me more evidence. I can get you warrants to search his office and his house in no time."

"That won't be productive: he's already cleaned out any evidence in his office, and he wouldn't pull his family into it by keeping anything in his house. We need to look at the victims. We need to find out if anyone at Wargrave was connected to Pasha or Smith."

* * *

Arzu Pasha's front room was filled with boxes. 

"You're moving out?" Eames asked.

"We don't have the money to pay the month's rent; not with the expenses for the funeral. We'll be staying in that women's shelter," Arzu replied. She was calmer than she had been the first time they saw her.

"Mrs. Pasha, would you look at some photos and tell us if you've ever met any of these people, or seen them with your husband?" Goren asked.

She nodded, then examined photos of Wargrave employees. "I've never seen any of them. No."

"Did you ever overhear your husband talking about Darius Olsen, Eugenia Crespo, Mark Zupan..." Eames read off the list of all 15 Wargrave employees. Arzu listened carefully, and answered in the negative to each one.

"He had not much time for friends," Arzu said. "He was so devoted to us. He worked all day, five and sometimes six days a week, coming home not until nine or later every night, all so we would have money." She took a deep breath heavy with grief. "I don't know what we're going to do."

* * *

Monica Smith's housekeeper, Sarah Vang, had also never met or heard of any Wargrave employee. 

"Monica dated a lot of men. Did any of them ever follow her or threaten her?" Eames asked.

"Not that I saw," the housekeeper claimed. "But..." she trailed off.

"But what?" Goren said encouragingly.

"It's probably not important, but...a few days before she died, someone kept calling the house and hanging up when I answered. Then the same thing happened to Monica when she got home."

"Did she have any guess who was calling?"

"She wouldn't have told me if she did. The only time she ever talked to me was when she was giving me orders."

As Goren and Eames walked down the front steps of Smith's mansion, Goren said what they were both thinking. "It had to be the same person who left the message."

"But why would he be so worried about leaving a message when he could have just told Monica herself. That way wouldn't have left such an obvious trail. He handed us a major clue by leaving that message."

"Maybe he didn't," Goren said thoughtfully. "We have to listen to that recording again."

* * *

_"Monica Smith? This is Don Vincent from the law office of Dante Brighson. I'm calling on behalf of Cameron Smith in regards to possible reduction in the amount of reparation claimed by Mr. Smith. Mr. Brighson regrets that..."_

"Pause it there," Goren instructed. He and Eames had listened to the message half a dozen times already. They stood behind Valorie Darcy, a young acoustician. "Does the voice sound...off to you?"

"A little," Eames agreed. "But I can't figure out why."

"Here's something," Darcy said, pointing to the sound spectrogram on the computer screen. "There's a sound here that shouldn't be here. Right in the pause between 'Smith' and 'Mister'."

"Can you isolate it?" Eames asked.

"Yeah. Just a moment."

A moment later, Darcy played the isolated sound bite. They listened intently.

"Let me turn it to maximum volume. Just a sec." Darcy replayed the sound bite.

"Slow it down a little," Eames said.

They listened to it again. Then one more time, before Goren stated what they had all realized. "Breathing."

"Specifically exhaling," Darcy said. "It's not likely a speaker would exhale after a long sentence without taking a breath. And no possible physical way the speaker could do what the spectrogram indicates he's doing: the breath overlaps with the last word of the sentence."

"There are two people on the tape."

"No," Goren countered. He closed his eyes. "Play it again."

They listened through again, holding their breaths.

"Let me try something," Darcy said. "I'm increasing the frequency by point five Hertz."

They went through the recording again, with Darcy slightly increasing the frequency until the voice sounded more natural.

"It's a woman's voice," Eames stated.

"In all likehood. Unfortunately it's impossible to be sure. There's no telling how much the person who made this digitally altered the voice."

"That's why the caller kept hanging up when someone answered," said Goren. "She needed to leave a message because she had already recorded it. To throw us off." He turned to Eames. "It looks like you were right. There was only one killer."

"And it definitely _wasn't _Darius Olsen," she concluded.

"There's one thing I'm sure about: he _did_ know about the tape." Goren said. "Which means it had to be someone connected to him. Someone who could get him to co-operate." 

"Someone else on the security tape," Eames said. "It was supposed to be someone _else's_ alibi."

Goren folded his hands together and rested his forehead on them. "If Olsen was in on the murder from the beginning, he would have made one of the phone calls. He didn't find out about it until later. It's possible he didn't even know what the tape was for, why the killer needed it. That makes me wonder why he helped the killer, and why she thought she could count on his help."

"I can think of a few possibilities," Eames said. She numbered them on her fingers. "He's having an affair with her. She's paying him. She's blackmailing him."

"We know he was hiding something. Just because their financial records don't show embezzlement doesn't mean there wasn't any."

"If something's off with Wargrave's finances, the accountant might suspect something. What was her name?"

"Meagan Cole. You're right. We should talk to her."

* * *

Wednesday, August 1. 

Darius smiled nervously as he walked into the office. He greeted his coworkers.

"Nice to see you back at work," Harvey said. "They let you go?"

"They...found some evidence that cleared me."

"That's great. Those two detectives seem like good cops. Welcome back."

As Darius walked toward his office, the killer turned the corner. He couldn't avoid her.

"Darius! Didn't expect to see you back so soon," she said with a polite smile.

"They...I...um...they think I didn't do it."

"Really? Glad to see they cleared up the confusion with the security tape."

"I'm not sure they did. I mean..."

She laughed lightly. "Relax. You're off the hook for now. That's all that matters." She took a step closer and her smile became hard and cold as diamond. "Was it something you told them about the tape that made them decide to let you go?"

"They don't know who made the tape. For all I know, they still think it was me."

Her smile relaxed a little. "Maybe they think you faked the security tape for some other reason. Is there something you're hiding from them? Maybe some photos you wouldn't want your wife and...beautiful, loving children to see?"

He took a moment and a step back before answering. "Who knows. I should really get to work."

"Of course." She shook her head slightly, with a half-laugh. "I'm sure your kids are relieved that their father's not going to jail. It would be aweful for them if anything happened to you. But I'm sure it would be worse for you if something happened to one of them. I'll see you later, Darius."

He shivered as he hurried to his office. Not from cold.


	8. The Contact

A/N: Several reviewers have mentioned that Eames is the senior partner. The only time they've said that on the show that I've seen is in "The Third Horseman" when Goren is telling a bunch of lies to a witness; we have no reason to believe it's true. I got the impression in the early episodes that Goren had been there longer.

Chapter 8: The Contact

Wargrave Technologies' accountant, Meagan Cole, was a tall, thin, thirty-something woman with thick platinum-blond hair, pale grey eyes, and a wide mouth that bunched up her cheeks when she spoke. She smiled languidly at the two detectives. "I wouldn't say Mr. Olsen's been acting suspiciously. I mean, he might not be the most wholesome of human beings (who is?) but...well, I'm not saying he never does anything immoral, but let he who is without sin cast the first stone and whatnot. He's not completely open with everyone about every aspect of his life, but he's an okay guy. It's nothing illegal."

"But he has been doing something unusual," Goren pressed.

Cole folded her hands over a neatly stacked pile of papers. Her desk was otherwise clear of clutter. Her entire office was carefully organized. "I really don't think this has anything to do with your investigation. In fact I know it doesn't. You'd just be wasting your time. Besides, if he found out I told you, he'd kill me. Not literally, of course. It's just an expression, you know."

"Considering this is a murder investigation, you might want to be careful about which expressions you choose to use," Eames suggested.

She dropped the smile. "Sorry. Darius made an arrangement to have a percentage of his paycheck put into a credit account in the company's name. He likes strip clubs and he's absolutely terrified of his wife finding out about it. Maybe not a good family activity, but guys always do stuff like that. In fact he's not even the only employee I've made this arrangement with. This is the nineties - I mean...the two-thousands or the double-ohs or the aughts or whatever we're calling this decade (it's been over a year and we don't have a concensus on what to call it yet). Anyway, just a married man having a little fun on the side. Nothing less suspicious than that, right?" She laughed a nasal, lilting laugh

"The IRS might not be so open minded," Eames commented.

"Oh, don't get the wrong idea about that," Cole rushed to reassure her. "I handled everything to that effect when I worked out the arrangement with Mr. Olsen. He pays taxes on his entire paycheck; it's really not that difficult to work out his taxes before I separate out his discretion money, as I like to call it."

"We'll need to see the transaction history on that account," Goren said. "And I think maybe it would be best if you don't tell Mr. Olsen that you told us."

"Oh, absolutely not. But I'm telling you, Darius couldn't have killed anyone. Look all you want."

Goren picked up a small framed picture from Cole's desk. "Cute kid."

"My son Denver. He'll be a year old in September. Isn't he just the most adorable little thing you've ever seen?"

"He is adorable," Eames said. "It would really be a shame if his mother were jailed for obstruction of justice because she didn't tell us everything she knows about a murder."

A thoughtful frown creased Cole's face, but she nodded. "Let me just print up that transaction history for you. Are you absolutely, positively sure the murderer works here?"

"That's where the evidence is pointing," Goren explained carefully. "Why? Do you know something that might be...significant?"

She looked at him with an overly friendly smile. "No. It's just so shocking and frightening to think someone I know could be a killer. Here you go," she said, handing him the list of charges on Olsen's account. "Call me if you need anything else."

"I will, thank you."

Meagan Cole kept up her smile until the two detectives left the room. Then she turned back to her computer and looked up another file. Then she pulled out her address book and looked up a number. Then she picked up her phone.

"_Valhalla Floral. How may I help you?"_ the voice on the phone said.

"I was just wondering how much two dozen red roses in a crystal vase would cost, including taxes and delivery," Cole said.

_"A hundred and seventy-five dollars and eighty-seven cents,"_ the woman replied after a moment.

"Thank you." Cole hung up the phone and clicked on the print button. Her hand was shaking. A cash withdrawal of exactly $175.87 from another discretionary personal account. When she first saw it several months ago, she thought it was odd, but then with what happened soon after, it had entirely slipped her mind. Now she connected it to the broken vase she'd found in the garbage bin, and recognized it for what it was: evidence of a motive for murder. She wasn't shocked and she wasn't frightened. A slow smile tugged at her face. How much would a murderer pay to keep this evidence from the police?

* * *

"Strip clubs, maybe prostitutes...it could give someone leverage over Olsen. If that person had proof." 

"Meagan Cole had proof," Eames pointed out.

"Which she easily could have kept from us."

"Or she figured we'd find out eventually and she didn't want to look suspicious. Something about that woman rubs me the wrong way."

"Did you notice how she suddenly became less...forthcoming? I think she realized something as she was talking to us."

"Like she suddenly remembered some evidence she forgot to cover up? I'm sorry, but that just makes her look _more _suspicious to me."

"You might be right," Goren conceded. "But whatever the killer had on Olsen had to be stronger than a piece of paper listing some charges at a strip club. It had to be something incontrovertible. Maybe something...photographic."

"The point is she has _something _on Olsen. And if we find out what that was, then we'll also have something on him, which could make him more cooperative." Eames was scrutinizing the list of charges on Olsen's account.

"Do you see something?"

"I know some of these places from working Vice." She checked her watch. "Feel like doing a little overtime with me tonight?"

He responded with a smile, curious about what his partner had in mind.

* * *

"Follow my lead, and don't look like a cop," Eames whispered in Goren's ear as they entered a loud, smoke-filled night club. He struggled to keep up with his smaller partner as she slipped between the revelers. He did a double take when he caught sight of her again. She was perched on a bar stool, leaning forward with her folded arms resting on the counter. With the somewhat cocky tilt of her chin, the unwavering focus of her eyes, and her mocking almost-smile, she exuded confidence. She was in her element. 

That's when Goren realized something: this was a woman who loved her job. It wasn't just that she got satisfaction and pride from her career, like all good cops; for Eames the work was _fun_.

"Molly!" she called.

The hefty bartender turned toward her. "Lexa! I haven't seen you here for a while." She glanced over at Goren. "Who's your stud?"

"Long story. How's business going?"

"Can't complain. Well, I could, but I wouldn't be able to stop all night."

"That's just because you're so thorough, Molly. But I know what you mean." She glanced in Goren's direction. "I was hoping I could introduce my friend here to Heather, but she's being unusually elusive. Hey," she added as though the thought had just occured to her, "do you know where I can find her?"

Molly checked the clock. "These days she's usually at Salty's Diner around this time. And she's calling herself Virga now."

"Figures. She's a human chameleon. Thanks for the tip. I'll look there." Eames continued chatting for a minute or so. Goren watched her with growing respect. "I'm sorry to be talking your ear off. I should let you get back to work. See ya around, Molly."

"See ya, Lex."

Eames went back to her partner and steered him toward the exit with a light touch on his arm.

Outside, in the heat of the August evening, Goren smiled at her. "That was really good. I read in your file that you did undercover work, but...have you ever consider a career in acting?"

"I migh be good looking, but I'm not _that _good looking," she said dismissively.

He stared at her for a moment longer, then shook his head slightly. He didn't need to ask why she became a cop; he knew: for her, it wasn't just a career, it was what she _was_, what she always had been, as much as she was a human being.

"You didn't do too bad, yourself," she said, uncomfortable with his silence. "You played your part perfectly."

"I wasn't playing," he said with a note of admiration in his voice.

She chuckled. Then added, cryptically yet jovially, "That was the easy part."

* * *

Twilight had fallen over the city by the time they arrived at Salty's Diner, a humble eatery with one long window throwing a square of fluorescent white light into a dark, dirty street. It was reminiscent of the diner in Edward Hopper's painting _Nighthawks_.

The aroma of french fries and hamburgers greeted them when they entered. Eames zeroed in on a woman sitting near the window.

The woman wore tight jeans that accentuated her long legs, and an even tighter silky green blouse. Her thick golden hair fell to her shoulders, and was styled in such a way that half her porcelain face was obscured. She glanced up when they approached. Her thick, bright red lips tightened, and a look of irritation dulled her large, limpid green eyes.

"I like the new hairdo, Virga," Eames said.

"Officer Eames. You have no idea how much I wished this day would never come."

"I think I can imagine." She confidently took the seat next to her contact. "If I've tallied right - and I have - you still owe me one favor."

"Damn," Virga said blandly. She looked past Eames and appraised Goren. "Aren't you going to introduce me to...is this your partner?" She inclined her head toward Eames, made a disdainful sound in her nose, and turned her lips up in what wasn't quite a sneer but couldn't have been called a smile, though it did convey amusement. "You're not working Vice anymore," she concluded in a musical voice.

"Virga, this is my partner Detective Goren, from the Major Case Squad."

"Ooo; that sounds _impressive_," Virga said mockingly.

Goren moved around the two women and sat on the other side of Virga. In the moment he was facing away, he allowed himself a small smile. Then he turned to Virga with what came accross as thinly veiled appreciation. "I know," he said. "It's like calling us the honors students of the NYPD. Who cares? I wonder who thought up that name, and who they were trying to impress. I mean, anyone who takes us seriously will just be disappointed. You, on the other hand," he smiled. "My partner underexaggerated when she told me about you." He looked over at Eames. "How did you put it? 'Distractively beautiful'." He fixed his eyes back on Virga's face. "She said I had to be careful not to get sidetracked."

Virga scooted back a few inches, not used to cops getting so close to her. "Right. Like you'll accomplish anything with that stupid flattery."

His lips curved in a self-deprecating smile, like he'd been caught in a ruse, but the light of attraction didn't leave his eyes. "I wasn't trying to. I don't think anything I could say would influence whether you help us. The truth is, Virga, your help may be invaluable to catching a murderer. We need some information, and my partner says you're the only person she can think of resourceful enough to help us."

Virga turned away from him, still trying to pretend she wasn't flattered, but no longer succeeding. "What do you want to know?"

Eames dropped a mugshot in front of her. "His name is Darius Olsen. He frequents a nightclub you sing at. We think someone has some dirt on him, and we need to know what it is."

Virga's carefully sculpted eyebrows rose as she picked up the photo. "He's not one of mine, but I've heard about him. I have a friend - I won't name names - who owns a nice little place. She has - um - a side business selling, shall we say, controversial and candid photographic art. A buyer recently purchased anything specifically featuring this Darius Olsen. The buyer took unusual pains to remain anonymous, even knowing how discreet this friend of mine is."

"Any idea how the buyer found your friend and her little 'candid photographic art' business?"

"That I can't tell you," Virga said. "And I absolutely _won't _tell you the name of my friend. I assure you, that's all you'll find out down here."

"I believe you," Goren said. "I get the feeling that if anyone knew the identity of Darius Olsen's blackmailer, it would be you."

She didn't say anything, but she smiled at what was, to her mind, the highest compliment Goren had paid her yet. "By the way, who was murdered?" she asked.

"Yusuf Pasha, Craig Hart, and Monica Smith," Eames said. "We have evidence tracing the murderer to the company where Darius Olsen works, Wargrave Technologies."

"Wargrave? You're kidding. Some companies have the worst luck."

"You've heard of them?" asked Goren.

"Yeah. When their CEO or something was knocked off back in March, the cops questioned some friends of mine. They were just sure one of _us _did it. Like we'd be so paranoid to use bleach!"

Eames frowned. "Who was this?"

Virga stared at her. "You mean you don't know? You're looking for a murderer at a company where someone else was murdered just a few months ago, and you didn't even _know _about it?" She looked at Goren. "And just when I was starting to doubt the fundamental incompetence of all cops." A fresh cup of coffee was placed in front of her by the tired-looking waitress. Virga picked it up and inhaled the steam before taking a long sip. Then she smiled at the wall. "We're even now, Detective Eames. I look forward to never seeing you again. As for you, Detective Goren," she turned her smile to him, "come back sometime without the old ball and chain. I'll show you a good time."

* * *

The detectives were silent when they exited the diner. 

Two different trains of thought ran through Goren's mind simultaneously. One was busy fitting the earlier murder into the context of their investigation. The other was puzzling over his partner. He could easily imagine how a detective in Vice had come across someone like Virga, but what was their history? Why did Virga owe Eames a favor? Why hadn't Eames told him about her sources?

He risked a glance at her. Perhaps she wasn't as by-the-books as her file indicated. After all, just as a clear conscience was a sign of a bad memory, a clean record could be a simple matter of not getting caught. Maybe this partner was someone who wouldn't mind the games Goren sometimes played with suspects and witnesses. Maybe this was a partner who would even play along.

* * *


	9. The Suicide

Chapter 9: The Suicide

Thursday, August 2.

"What do you have?" Deakins asked as he walked up to his newest detective team.

"Quinn Phelps, open homicide," Eames read from the file in front of her. "Wargrave Technologies' Human Resource Director. He was killed in his car on the night of March 13th."

"Have you read this?" he asked Goren.

"Yeah. I asked Rogers to dig up his autopsy report."

Eames continued. "Traces of lipstick were found on him, but no DNA and no fingerprints. The crime scene was washed down with bleach. Wallet was missing. With the part of town his car was found in, it was easy to conclude he picked up the wrong pro. The cops at the scene stopped counting the stab wounds at 25."

Dr. Rogers walked up to them carrying the autopsy report. "Specifically, the guy was stabbed fifty-eight times, some of them post-mortem. The blade was only two and a half inches long. The first stab wound was in the back of the neck, which didn't kill him, but damaged his spine enough to render him paralyzed."

"All the subsequent wounds were to the front of his body," Goren said.

"There was blood splatter all over the driver's side window," Eames added.

Goren took the file from the ME and looked at the photos of the wounds. "Some of these are from stabbing, some of them are from slicing...curved, slow. The killer took her time. She was...experimenting, seeing what was most satisfying. She was enjoying herself."

"A sadist?" Deakins questioned.

"Not in the classic sense. There's nothing sexual about these murders." He picked up a photo and stared at it with an intensity that made a shiver run down Eames' spine. "This isn't about death; it's about ending a life. What we're looking at here is hate. Pure hate."

A silence followed. It was broken by Rogers. "In case you haven't noticed yet, he can get a little overdramatic," she told Eames.

"We're sure this is the same killer?" asked Deakins.

"Similar MO," Eames said.

Goren added, "It's the same kind of anger."

"What kind of anger is that?"

He didn't take his eyes off the photos. "The kind that hides," he mumbled.

They fell silent again. They all saw it: the traces of lipstick, the initial stab wound in the back of the neck...the person who hated this man enough to torture him while he lay paralyzed had stabbed him as she was kissing him.

"You can't help but wonder," Eames mused, "why no one at Wargrave thought to mention this."

* * *

"It's an embarrassment," Eugenia Crespo said as though she were impatiently explaining a simple concept to an obstinate child. "I worked hard to build this company, and I wasn't about to let my colleague's impropiety smear our reputation." 

"You instructed your employees not to tell us about Phelps' murder," Goren realized.

"No. I informally incouraged them to leave out details that could potentially misguide your investigation. Quinn Phelps was murdered by some prostitute he picked up. Craig Hart and the others clearly were not."

"You weren't surprised by the...circumstances of his death, were you?" he stated. "Is that because it was consistent with what you knew about his personality?"

"Quinn liked women...a lot more than they liked him. I mean, for goodness sake, he was a 58-year-old man who kept a Playboy calendar in his desk!"

"Were there complaints against him from the women he worked with?" he continued.

She hesitated. "Yes, but he always backed off when they asked him to. Always. He knew where to draw his lines."

Eames asked. "Did anyone make a complaint against him before his murder?"

"No. As a matter of fact, his behavior had toned down considerably in the months previous. I'd harbored hope that he was finally growing up."

"Or maybe he set his sights on a special girl; one who skipped the official complaint stage for a more proactive solution," Eames suggested.

As they walked toward the door, Goren paused and turned back. "One more question, Ms. Crespo. Did...Mr. Phelps ever turn his attentions to you?"

"No, of course not," Crespo scoffed.

"Did _that _bother you?"

Her mouth gaped open and she half-stood. "How dare...I want you out of my office _now!_"

* * *

"Hello again, Lucy," Goren said to the secretary. 

"Hello, Detectives," she smiled shyly.

"We need to ask you about Quinn Phelps," Eames said.

Lucy's smile wavered. "Why?"

"Because we believe his murder is connected," Goren answered.

"But he was killed a by a..."

Eames shook her head. "No, someone just wanted to make it look like that."

"Did he ever...we heard about his reputation, and you're a young, attractive, unattached woman..."

"He...he voiced an interest in me, once," she said nervously. "But only once. I told him I didn't date older men."

"Do you know who he was voicing an interest in right before he died?" Eames inquired.

"No one, as far as I know."

"But would you know?" Goren asked. "You are just a secretary; it's not like anyone in the office takes you seriously enough to confide to."

She recoiled. "They...they do. I knew when he hit on Cathy, and that he was one of the reasons Julia quit."

"Or maybe he just hit on you...because he thought you were easy, being a single mother and..."

Lucy jumped to her feet with indignation. "How can you say those things? I...I should sue you for harassment! It's not like that at all! And you're one to talk: a stereotypical bully cop. It's people like you who give the NYPD a bad name. I don't want to talk to you anymore."

"Fine." He stood up and walked away. "I didn't think you'd have anything useful for us anyway."

When she left the room, Eames sighed. "Forgive my partner. He didn't get his coffee this morning."

"Some men," Lucy said, shaking her head.

* * *

Eames caught up with him in the hallway. "What was that?" she demanded. 

Goren looked startled. "I had to push her to anger, to see how she reacted."

"Well you pushed it too far."

"At least now we know it wasn't her. She didn't react violently."

"Congratulations, Sherlock. I hope you're proud of yourself." She walked passed him in a huff. "Don't try that with our next interview."

* * *

Next they spoke with Meagan Cole. 

"Quinn? He flirted with all the girls. We knew he wasn't serious."

"Who was the last person he flirted with before his murder?" Eames asked.

"I don't know. Probably Jennifer. She left the company a few weeks after his death."

"Can you think of anyone who might have wanted him dead?"

"Heavens no. We were fine with him. He was kind of an office joke."

"Was he the only office joke?" Goren asked after a moment.

Eames shot him a warning glare. "So you didn't notice anything suspicious before Quinn Phelps' death?" she asked.

"No," Cole responded, her tone slightly higher than it had been. "I'll let you know if I remember anything."

* * *

Goren seemed frustrated after the interview. "I couldn't tell," he said. "It could be her." 

"She was a lot more talkative the last time. Give someone like that an opening on office gossip, and they'll usually run with it. She didn't, but I got the feeling she wanted to. I have to tell you, Goren, I think she's hiding something."

"I'm sure of it," he said, but it sounded more like he was talking to himself than to her.

They next interviewed Christy Van Holt. She was sketching a design in a notebook when they entered her office. "What do you want?" she inquired politely.

"We're wondering about Quinn Phelps' murder," Eames said.

"His murder? Cause and effect..." she mumbled.

"What do you mean by that?" Goren questioned.

She glanced up. "He was mugged by a prostitute. Tragic way to go, but what could he expect?" She went back to concentrating on her design.

"We get the impression that Quinn Phelps wasn't very popular around the office," Eames said.

"Not popular. He was tolerated. His performance evaluations could be unnecessarily harsh, and he bothered some of the female employees."

"Did he ever bother you?" she asked.

Van Holt smiled condescendingly. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly one of the more attractive women around here. He never hit on me. Not seriously."

Goren walked over to her desk and examined her sketches. "So you don't...have any guess about who wanted him dead?"

"No."

"Your designs are very...interesting."

"Thank you."

"What is this you're drawing?"

"A system to test water impurities."

"The multiple chambers, are those for testing more than one water sample at a time?"

"Yes."

"You might want to get a more experienced engineer to look this over before you submit the product idea," he suggested. "The intake valves leave the samples vulnerable to cross-contamination. The results you'd get from this wouldn't hold up in court."

She glanced up and smiled. "You're a police officer, not an engineer. Don't tell me how to design my inventions and I won't tell you how to catch your bad guys. Deal?" She turned back to her sketchpad. "Anything else I can tell you?"

Goren glanced at Eames questioningly. She shook her head. "We'll drop by again if we think of anything else."

"I'm not going anywhere," Van Holt said as she erased some marks she'd just drawn.

* * *

"What's your take on her?" Eames asked as they walked away from Van Holt's office. 

"She did it," he stated.

Eames stared at him, incredulous. "What makes you so sure?"

"Her inventions are intricate, with many interdependent components. She designed that murder. And when I criticized her work, she...she didn't lash out, she didn't show her anger outwardly, but she made a mistake in her sketch. Her violence found an outlet to manifest itself."

"You're basing an accusation of guilt on an inventor's style and a messed-up pencil mark?"

"Isn't that how cases usually go? You know in your gut who did it as soon as you interview them, and then the only thing left is to prove it."

"I'm not reading guilt off Van Holt. 'Nerd' yes, but not guilt."

"She doesn't think she has anything to feel guilty about. She feels absolutely justified in these murders. Or she just doesn't care." He held up his hands in an almost imploring gesture. "But I _see _it. It's her."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're annoyingly arrogant?"

He smiled. "Yes, but not another cop...in those words...to my face."

"At least you have a sense of humor about it."

* * *

They found Darius Olsen in his office. He looked like he hadn't been sleeping. "What do you want this time?" he asked. 

"For you to tell us who faked the security tape," Eames answered.

"I told you already that I have no idea."

"But we all know that's not true. And we've found out why you agreed to lie for her. She had photos of you with prostitutes. Did she threaten to show them to your wife? Your boss? The police?"

He stiffened. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do," Goren stated. "It was Christy, wasn't it? She threatened you?"

He stared at them, but said nothing.

"We also know about your paycheck arrangement to keep your wife from finding out about your strippers," Eames added. "Were those the papers you were trying to hide from us?"

"We're investigating four murders here, Darius," Goren said. "Hiding evidence from us...it's not a good idea at this point."

"Now's the time to start telling us the truth," Eames concluded.

Olsen looked troubled, indecisive. Then he took a deep, shaky breath. "Please leave my office. I have nothing to say to you."

"We can protect you," Goren said. "You and your family."

"No you can't."

* * *

Friday, August 3. 

Eames didn't know how many times her phone rang before she opened her eyes and reached for it. "H'llo?" she grumbled. She rubbed her eyes and looked at her clock as she listened with several levels of dismay to the voice on the other end. It was 4:38 a.m. and she really didn't want to deal with this. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

She joined Goren, a handful of uniforms, and CSU techs outside the highrise office building housing Wargrave Technologies.

Eames looked down at the body of Meagan Cole. "Ouch."

"A stoned teen called it in a couple of hours ago," the officer in charge told them. "He said he heard her scream as she took the dive."

Goren crouched next to the body, contemplating the way she landed and the distance from the building. "She jumped. There's no evidence she was pushed."

"No," the officer confirmed. "And the witness didn't see anyone on the roof."

Eames looked up. "Not that he would have from down here."

"I want to talk to him," Goren said.

"Of course. But I have to warn you, with the state he's in I'm not sure how reliable anything he says will be."

They found the teen sitting in the open door of a patrol car. He looked dazed and ill. It was hard to tell whether the horrible scene he'd witnessed or drugs were more to blame.

"You called 911?" Goren asked.

"Yeah. I was just on a walk to see a friend when I heard the scream. I looked over and saw that woman fall off the building. I..." he looked haunted at the memory. The image of her falling would stay with him for the rest of his life. "I didn't know what to do. I got to the nearest pay phone and called the cops."

"And you stuck around until they got here. That was good. A smart thing to do," Goren said. "You're sure you didn't see anyone else come out of the building while you were waiting?"

"No. There was no one else around."

"Did you hear anything?"

"Besides her scream? No. Well...no."

"Anything at all. It might not seem important now, but it could be later."

"I thought I heard a baby crying for a second. After the scream. I might have been imagining it."

"And you didn't see anything else? Think carefully; this is important."

The witness blinked. "I might've seen a flashlight in a window. But it could've been a reflection or something."

"Which window?"

He looked up at the building. "Uh, I can't tell. I don't remember. I'm sorry."

* * *

Goren and Eames walked out onto the roof as the colors of sunrise were just beginning to seep into the sky. Goren had barely spoken since talking to the witness. His lips were set in a distracted frown. 

Eames' eyes scanned the ledge above where Meagan Cole fell. There were no signs of struggle. "We'll need to get CSU up here."

Goren nodded, but said, "They won't find anything. She's been careful about not leaving physical evidence."

"You're still sure it's Van Holt?"

"More than ever."

Eames looked over the ledge at the small crowd below. Then her eyes lifted to the sillouette of the city. The light from the sky was not yet bright enough to drown out the lights of the buildings. "The thing about murder in the city that never sleeps: there are always witnesses."

He came out of his revery and caught sight of the protective gaze she'd cast on the city below. "It is beautiful," he said. "The city. You grew up here, didn't you?"

"Yes. It's my home."

"And you love it. That's one reason you love your job so much."

She turned away from the view with an amused smile. "Save the psychoanalyzing for the suspects. Come on, we have a case to solve."

* * *

Meagan Cole's office was as tidy as the first time they saw it. "With how organized this place is, someone could easily have put everything back in its place after searching it," Goren noted. 

"What do you think she could have had on Van Holt that would make her kill her?"

"I don't know."

"We don't even know if this is the room the witness saw the light in...or if he saw a light," Eames pointed out.

One of the CSU techs suddenly looked up at them. "Detectives, you should look at this."

They looked down at the tech's discovery: in the bottom of a desk drawer, hidden under a stack of legal papers, were Craig Hart's missing watch and Monica Smith's red beryl ring. Beneath it was what looked like a typed suicide note.

After letting the photographer record the untouched contents of the drawer, Goren lifted out the note. "'I wish to apologize to the families of those I killed. As a mother myself, I can imagine the grief I have caused. I felt my actions were justified at the time, but I can't live with the guilt any longer. Once again, I'm sorry for those I have cut off from life. I hope their families will find it in their hearts to forgive me, and that Denver will come to forgive me for abandoning him.' It's signed 'Meagan Cole'."

* * *

On Eames' insistence, they stopped to get coffee on the way to 1PP. The coffee shop was still crowded with people stopping in for some liquid consciousness on their way to work. 

Goren had barely spoken since leaving the crime scene.

Eames glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "Cole is the only one we know for sure knew about Olsen's secret account," she pointed out.

"The person who did those murders wouldn't kill herself. Not over guilt," he countered quietly.

"She was being reckless, like she was asking for something to go wrong."

"Exactly: reckless, not suicidal. The murderer feels like she has nothing to lose. Meagan Cole did."

"I'm not saying it wasn't Van Holt, I just think you should consider other suspects."

"I have considered other suspects. No one else fits!"

Eames sighed, got their coffees, and sat at a small table. "Assuming you're right, why would she kill Craig Hart? I mean, even forgetting about the others, all he was doing was suing her company. Nothing personal."

"You saw how focused she was on her work. If she figured out Hart was faking evidence to implicate her as a plagiarist, she would take it personally. If I'm right, her work is the only thing she's passionate about. Besides murder."

"You sound almost like you sympathize with her. Almost like you admire her."

"Well, you have to admit, her murders were...they were bold, and creative."

"It's cold-blooded _murder_, not a work of art."

He looked up, surprised by the note of accusation in her words, and said defensively, "Maybe that's the way she saw it. If you don't...appreciate crimes from the perspective of the people committing them, how can you hope to unravel them?"

"With detective work. You look for evidence, put it together, arrest the bastard."

"You have to know where to look," he argued. "You have to know why they did it."

"Do you? Talking about perps like that, it might make some people wonder if you identify with them, or envy them. Like maybe you'd kill someone, given the right circumstances."

"Of course I could. Everyone's capable of murder. Just...different kinds, different circumstances, different motives. You, for example..." He leaned in, tilted his head, looked her in the eyes. "You're...calm, cynical. You have the necessary composure to...to plan out a murder, and make it look like an accident or self defense. You wouldn't run. You would stick around and push your side of the story, to trial if necessary. You would know exactly what to say, how to say it, exactly how to make it look. I can see you killing someone you knew was guilty of murder, someone you knew would kill again, who got off." He watched her expression closely, and saw anger. Anger, not disgust, not even indignation. He wasn't wrong about her.

"Don't do that. Don't assume you know me just because your supposed to be some great, insightful profiler. And never, ever look at me like I'm a suspect."

He straightened up and backed away from the table. "You asked," he said mildly.

"And I'm sorry I did." She took a long drink of her coffee, then rubbed her eyes. "Maybe Van Holt did it, maybe it really was Cole, or maybe it was someone else. I just think you should keep an open mind. Oh, and I am _not _cynical."

"I do have an open mind. Do you?" He hadn't meant to counter-attack, but she had gotten to him more than he'd like to admit when she implied he identified with criminals.

Without answering, she finished her coffee and stood up. She gave him a look he knew well: wary, disturbed. He'd seen that look too many times.

They left in a resentful silence.


	10. Excuses

Chapter 10: Excuses

Back at 1PP they were greeted by Deakins and Carver.

"Was it suicide?" Deakins asked them.

"It looks that way, but..." Eames began. When Goren didn't say anything, she finished, "my partner is convinced it's another murder. And he thinks he knows who the killer is."

"Who?" Deakins asked Goren.

Goren glanced at Eames. Whatever her feelings towards him after their earlier altercation, she wasn't letting them interfere with work. His respect for her was growing. "It's Christy Van Holt," he answered.

"I don't suppose you have enough evidence for a warrant?" Carver asked.

Goren shook his head.

"Do you know why she did it?" Deakins inquired.

"I have an idea why she killed Craig Hart. The other two...I don't know, but I don't think they were random. She only would have killed them if she knew them."

Deakins shook his head. "Did she just wake up one day and decide to kill three people she didn't like?"

"It might be about that simple. When she didn't get caught for murdering Quinn Phelps, she might have decided to solve other problems the same way. She likes killing, and if we don't stop her she'll kill again."

"Do you have anything resembling evidence, or is this just your famous intuition?"

Goren looked contrite. "No hard evidence yet."

"Then I strongly suggest you find some," said Carver. "Judges still won't take your gut instinct as grounds for a warrant."

The captain and ADA left the two detectives to get to work.

"We should start with Meagan Cole's suicide," Goren said. "If we can figure out why Van Holt risked another murder right...under our noses..." His phone started ringing. He spoke over it for a moment. "Then it might give us an idea why she committed the other murders. Hello?" He listened to the phone for a moment. "Now's not a good time...Yeah...I'm sorry, I..." He bit his lip and glanced at Eames. She took the hint and left.

A few minute later, she returned with two cups of coffee, arriving at her desk (not coincidentally) a matter of seconds after Goren got off the phone. "Your girlfriend?" she teased.

He didn't smile. "We should get Cole's phone records, and interview anyone who was in touch with her for the past couple of days."

"Good idea. Remember how much Meagan liked to talk? If she knew something juicy I doubt she could have kept it to herself."

* * *

They went to Meagan Cole's house to interview her nanny, Anabel Dy. 

She awkwardly opened the door with one hand; she carried the sleeping baby in her arms, with his head resting on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she apologized after introductions. "This is the only way I can get him to sleep. I've called Meagan's ex-husband. He's flying in this afternoon."

"Ms. Dy, can we ask you, did Meagan talk about what was happening at the office recently?"

"Yes. She told me all about the murder investigation. That's why I was a little worried about how she was acting yesterday."

"How was she acting?" Goren asked.

"When she came home from work she sent me straight home. Usually she tells me all about her day and asks me to stay for dinner. Yesterday she was really quiet."

"Did you ask her why she was sending you home early?"

"She said she had some business to take care of. And she said she might give me a raise if it went well. That was it."

Goren nodded almost imperceptibly. "Did you find Denver alone when you came in this morning?"

"Yes. Meagan gave me a key so I could let myself in every morning, because sometimes she overslept her alarm clock. I thought that might be what happened this morning, but Denver was crying. He was hungry and needed a diaper change. I called into Meagan's room, and then I went in there and didn't find her. That's when I called the police and found out about...about Meagan being dead. I know her, and she would never kill herself. And she would never leave Denver alone."

"Maybe she didn't," he said to himself.

Eames leaned in and whispered to him. "The witness thought he heard a baby cry. If the killer had Cole's baby..."

"She would have done anything she was asked to do: go to the office, sign the suicide note, even jump off the roof. A gun to her son's head...perfect hostage."

"Cole probably met the killer here. Even if she didn't, the killer had to come back here with the baby. I'll call CSU and get them to dust for prints," Eames said.

* * *

Eames found a file on her desk when they got back to the office. "Cole's phone records," she answered Goren's inquisitive look. 

"Any surprises?"

"Besides calls to her house, calls inside the office, and other things that look like business, she put in a call to a place called Valhalla Floral on Wednesday at 4:46. It lasted less than two minutes." She paused thoughtfully. "That was right after we spoke to her, wasn't it?"

Goren nodded. "That's...that could be significant."

Eames picked up the phone from her desk. "Let's see if we can find out why she called."

* * *

Lucy Franco dabbed tears away with a tissue. "I just ca...can't believe Meagan's gone." 

"I know this is hard," Eames said, "but if we're going to find her killer, we need you to think: do you know if anyone ordered or received red roses from Valhalla Floral recently?"

"Recently? No."

"Not recently? When?" Goren asked falteringly.

She glared at him for a moment. She was still angry about the way he talked to her the last time, and she was confused that he was being so polite now. "March. A week or so before Quinn died. The delivery man left the flowers with me."

"Who were they addressed to?" Eames asked.

"Christy."

"Did Meagan see it?" Goren inquired.

"Yes. She saw the flowers on my desk and thought they were for me. I told her they weren't. She said she liked the vase, so she found the address of the florist and wrote it in her planner. She..." A small sob escaped her throat. "She was always such a busybody. She looked at the card, even though I told her not to pry. There was a beautiful poem in it about forgetting the mistakes of yesterday to find happiness tomorrow."

"Did you find out who it was from?"

"It just said 'Your Eternal Admirer.' Meagan said that was the sweetest thing she ever heard. But she said that about a lot of things."

"Did Christy say who it was from?"

"No. In fact, she never talked about it. She never talks about anything but work." She looked confused. "Do you mind my asking, what does this have to do with the murders?"

"We don't know," Goren answered.

Eames added, "But we think Meagan did."

Lucy frowned thoughtfully. "Do you think it might be Christy?"

Goren leaned forward, intrigued by her tone and how quickly she'd made the connection. "Do you...have reason to think it might be Christy?"

She glanced around inconspicuously before answering. "Christy is a very nice person..."

"But..." he prompted.

"But sometimes she can be kind of scary."

"What do you mean by that?" Eames asked.

"Just...when someone does something to annoy her, for a split second she'll get this look in her eye, a wild look. Then it goes away, and that's the scary part. I know that doesn't make sense, but...I'm not the only one who thinks that. John's noticed it too."

"John who?" Eames prompted.

Lucy's eyes flicked nervously to Eames' notebook, but she answered, "John Dudek, our janitor."

* * *

John Dudek was a broad, muscular man with dark grey hair, a deeply lined face, and sharp dark eyes beneath shaggy eyebrows. "Can I help you?" he asked as the detectives approached him. 

"I'm Detective Eames, this is..."

"Detective Goren. Yeah, I know. People talk."

"Did you hear anyone talk about the murders?" Goren asked.

"Are you kidding? It's all anyone talked about for a week. But now it's going to be all about Meagan."

"Did you hear anything that could help catch the killer?"

He rolled his eyes at her. "Lady, if I did, I would've called you."

"Well," Goren said, "if someone here is the murderer...who do you think it might be?"

"How would I know? You must be getting pretty desperate if you're asking a guy like me for a clue."

Goren smiled. "Mr. Dudek, we're specifically wondering what you know about Christy Van Holt."

"We heard you're not exactly her biggest fan," said Eames.

"You can say that again. She's got a temper. She doesn't show it, but she's got one. But a murderer? I don't think so. Smashing up her boyfriend's flowers is one thing, killing's another."

Eames and Goren exchanged surprised glances. "When did she smash up her boyfriend's flowers?" Goren asked.

"It was a few months ago. She'd thrown a glass vase full of roses against the wall in her office. Huge mess. I had to clean it up, of course."

"Did you argue with her about it?" Goren continued.

"Yeah. I said she should help clean up her own office. She just glared at me and walked away."

"Is that what she does when someone makes her angry?" he asked.

Dudek answered slowly, choosing his words carefully. "When she gets mad, it flashes in her eyes, then it goes away. But you can tell it's not really gone. You get the feeling it might be sneaking up behind you or hiding under your bed. The woman gives me the creeps."

* * *

Saturday, August 4. 

Christy Van Holt yawned as she walked to the door of her apartment.

Whoever was on the other side of her door knocked again, more forcefully. "Ms. Van Holt, this is Detective Eames and Goren."

She opened the door. "This couldn't have waited until Monday?" she asked.

"Can you step outside please?" Eames said instead of answering.

"Why?" she asked even as she complied.

Goren answered, speaking as though it was obvious. "Because you're under arrest for the murder of Meagan Cole."

"I thought she suicided," Van Holt said as she put her hands behind her back for the cuffs.

"That's what you wanted us to think," Eames said. "And you did a pretty good job of wiping away your finger prints at her house, but you missed one."

Goren moved around so that his face was inches from the suspect's. "As good as you think you are, Christy...we're better."

He saw it then. The flash of rage that faded even before it registered consciously, a spark that faded to ashes only to smolder, only to rise like a phoenix at a later time.

Then she smiled calmly. "I'll make sure to tell my lawyer you said that."

Goren beckoned to the cops they'd brought for back-up, who came forward to lead Van Holt away.

"She doesn't look worried," Eames noted, watching after her. "She must think she has a good lawyer."

Goren nodded without paying attention. They had a search warrant for her apartment. "I don't think we'll find the gun," he speculated. "She wouldn't be so careless as to hide it somewhere that could connect it to her." He hoped they'd find something else, something she wouldn't know would be significant. Something that would tell him how to break her open.

"I doubt we'll be lucky enough to find her enemies list," said Eames.

Goren looked around without smiling. "This woman could write 'enemies list' on a post-it note and stick it to a phone book."

Van Holt's apartment mirrored her office. Every surface was utilized for drawings or books or models. Goren eyed her bookshelves. Her tastes were eclectic. The books weren't organized according to any system her could discern. Fiction and nonfiction occupied the same shelves, books of philosophy and history intermingled with potboiler thrillers and fantasy novels.

Eames got on the suspect's computer. "She doesn't have internet," she announced with surprise.

Goren flipped open a large hardcover on the coffee table. "She probably uses the computer at the library or in her office. She values her privacy. Look at the windows."

The windows were covered with drapes of a thin white material that let light in without allowing anyone to see in. The drapes were stiff, as though they were never opened.

"There's nothing useful on her computer," Eames determined. "Nothing linking her to the murders or the victims."

"What's missing here?" Goren answered his own question before she could. "No photos, no art, no...nothing random or personal."

"Surprise, surprise: our murder suspect's not a people-person," Eames quipped.

In the bedroom, Goren found something that surprised him. "Detective Eames, come look at this."

She joined him a moment later. On her wall was a map of the world with photos pinned to several points, frequently overlapping. A low bookshelf beneath it was filled with various travel brochures and foreign language study guides. "She likes to travel. This will make a good prop at the bail hearing to prove she's a flight risk."

* * *

Van Holt sat patiently beside her lawyer in the interrogation room. They faced Goren, Eames, and Carver across the table. 

"Mr. Carver, I find myself actually _hoping _that you have more evidence against my client than a single fingerprint found on the door of her coworker's house, a coworker she had many reasons to visit multiple times over the years," said Van Holt's defense attorney, Sigmund Paul. "In fact, I'm hoping you have any evidence, like evidence of motive, evidence of means, or even some _circumstantial _evidence, because, Mr. Carver, if you had some evidence to back up this accusation then I would feel like the entire American legal system _wasn't _being blatantly spat on."

"Save that kind of talk for the jury, Mr. Paul."

"I'd love to, but on this evidence your case will never get to trial, and you know it."

"The front room of the victim's house, including the doorknobs and the baby's crib, had been wiped down. Not exactly consistent with the suicide angle. Didn't think that one out too much, did you Christy?" Eames said.

"If she didn't commit suicide, then you're wasting your time questioning me while her killer's out there."

"Where were you on Thursday night?"

"I was home. Alone. But there's a security camera in the front lobby that would have shown if I left."

"Unless you went out the emergency exit," Goren said. "There's not a security camera in that stairwell. We checked."

"But, if I recall correctly, there's an alarm on that emergency exit," Van Holt pointed out.

"That it's reasonable to assume an engineer could have...circumvented."

"But is there any _evidence_ that I did?"

Paul, with a smug smirk, made a "what she said" gesture toward his client.

Goren stood and walked around the table until he was looking down at Van Holt. "She had a son," he said as he dropped an autopsy photo of Meagan Cole on the table. "You took a mother away from her son. And you did it deliberately. You even used that against her. How did you justify that to yourself, Christy? How _do_ you justify that?"

"I can't," she answered, with sincere-looking sorrow. "I wouldn't be able to. I don't know what kind of monster could."

Goren put other photos on top of it. "Craig Hart...I understand why you could hate him, but he was just doing his job. Yusuf Pasha has three children...three children who will now grow up without a father. What did he do to deserve that? Monica Smith, a young, beautiful woman with her whole life ahead of her, cut off by you. Quinn Phelps, what did he do to make you hate him enough to do this to him?"

"Nothing. Nothing to me," she said. "I don't even know those two. Meagan and Quinn, I would never kill them. They were my colleagues, my friends. I don't know who did, and I certainly don't know why."

"You know why. You had your reasons, your...justifications." He put his hands on the table and leaned forward until he was eye-to-eye with the suspect. "You're right; only a monster could do this. You are that monster, aren't you Christy? Are you...proud you did this? Proud of the way you killed them? Proud that you had the...the guts to pull the trigger?" He pounded his palms on the table. "Answer me!" He walked behind her. "They're dead because of you. You killed them, Christy! Dead! Do you understand that?"

She stared straight ahead, her face expressionless, her hands resting folded on the table.

"Don't answer that," her lawyer said unnecessarily.

"Let's talk about your first murder," Goren suggested. "Quinn Phelps. He was in love with you, wasn't he? He was stalking you. Maybe you didn't go to your boss because he had something on you. Is that what he was talking about in the note he sent with the roses?"

"What roses?" Van Holt inquired, sounding legitimately curious.

"The roses that were sent to you in March, a week before Quinn Phelps died. The janitor found them smashed all over your office," Eames said.

"_Those _roses were from my ex-boyfriend Armando," the suspect stated.

"Would 'Armando' be able to confirm that?" Eames challenged.

"He would if he hadn't recently moved out of the country with his ex-wife."

"Did 'Armando' have a last name?"

Van Holt tilted her head back. "You know, in the months we dated I never caught it."

Paul was trying not to smile. "Shall we move on, or would you like to poke into my client's questionable love life some more?" 

Goren paced back and forth behind her. This direction wasn't working: the more belligerent he was, the calmer she became. "You know, maybe you were right," he said.

Van Holt didn't react, but Paul said, "What are you talking about?"

"Maybe..." he walked back around the table and sat back down. "Maybe these people did deserve to die. Each one was...guilty. Yusuf Pasha, he was a former terrorist. He'd killed people. It was only justice. Monica Smith married an old man to get his money, taking it away from his own son. What kind of person would do that? And Craig Hart, well...he was a lawyer." He smiled at Sigmund Paul, as though it were a little joke. "He was faking evidence to win his clients' lawsuit. I bet he did that with his criminal cases, too."

"I'd almost like to kill the guy myself," Eames added.

Goren cast a glance her way. She wasn't sure how to interpret it. Did he approve of her contribution, or did he want her to stay out of it? "Quinn Phelps, he was a lecher, a...disgusting old man who sexually harassed younger women. And Meagan Cole, well...we talked to her. She seems like the kind of person who could get on your nerves fast. Did she try to blackmail you? Is that why you killed her? Someone that amoral...you don't want her anywhere near your company's money. I think the jury...or the judge will take all that into consideration. Each of these people...deserved to die."

Van Holt looked at him distastefully. "I don't think so. For the last time, I didn't kill them. I'm starting to wonder if you did." She stood up and looked at her attorney. "Do we need to stay here?"

"No." Paul smiled at Goren. "If they had anything else in their arsenal than this wild speculation, they would have used it by now."

Eames smiled. "You think so?"

Paul gave her a challenging look. "As a matter of fact, I do."

Eames stood up and moved to where she was directly across the table from Van Holt. "We've got you now for two murders. It's only a matter of time before we connect you to the other three. Five bodies. And I can assure you, you won't be getting a sympathetic jury. They'll look at you and see right through you, Miss Van Holt: a pathetic, overconfident, heartless killer. They'll convict you like that." She snapped her finger in Van Holt's face. "Unless you deal now, I'm seeing a lethal injection in your near future."

"Whatever you say." Van Holt followed her attorney out without a flicker of fear on her face.

Carver spoke up. "He's right. One fingerprint won't convince a jury. Not if Van Holt's that controlled on the stand."

"I'm starting to have my doubts," Eames said jokingly.

"She did it," Goren repeated. "I just don't know how to get to her."

"Then you'd better hope you find some more evidence. Some solid evidence," said Carver.

* * *

"Some reason you're giving me the silent treatment, Goren?" Eames asked. 

"Hm?" Goren didn't look up from the file he was reading at his desk.

"You haven't said a word to me for the past hour."

"I'm just thinking."

"I thought you could talk and think at the same time."

Goren looked up, tilting his head before lifting his eyes to her. "You complained about the way I talked to Lucy Franco, but you did the same thing with Van Holt."

"That was different. We were already almost sure Franco was innocent, and we're almost sure Van Holt's guilty. I'm not concerned about hurting her feelings. In fact, that's the least I'd like to do to her."

"So it's okay when it's someone you don't like?"

Eames ignored him and turned her attention instead to a file that had just been handed to her. "Van Holt's phone records."

Goren watched her as she read over them. "Nothing. Most of her calls were to her office or coworkers. No calls to family, it looks like. Few names that show up more than once. Amazingly, not a single 'Armando'."

A brief smile graced her partner's lips. She watched him as he shuffled through the files on his desk. Then he pulled one out. "No calls to family because she doesn't have any family. Her mother died when she was seventeen. Her parents divorced when she was eight. She was an only child." He got a thoughtful look on his face.

Eames watched him for a moment, then asked, "What are you thinking?"

"That though the methods of her crimes are out of the ordinary, her pathology might not be. A broken home, a troubled childhood..." he shook his head slowly. "But I still don't know how to reach her." He sighed with frustration.

"With how reckless she's been, she should have left more evidence." Eames tapped her desk for a moment. "Reckless and smart. I don't think she would have left the getaway car up to chance. She would have made sure Lucy wouldn't see her take the company car keys that morning."

Goren looked up curiously and waited for her to explain.

"Lucy wasn't at work because her son was sick. The killer used poison at least once."

He nodded. "She could have given Lucy's son something."

"There's a reason parents tell their kids not to take candy from strangers."

* * *

Monday, August 6. 

Lucy Franco brought her five-year-old son, Roy, into the police station. She looked around nervously, but Roy seemed excited to be there.

"You a police person, right?" Roy asked Goren.

"Yes," Goren said. "Would you like to see my badge?"

Roy nodded vigorously.

Goren took out his badge and handed it to the wide-eyed boy.

"Roy, these police are going to ask you some things, and I want you to tell them the truth, okay?" Lucy said.

"Okay Mommy."

Goren stooped down so he could be at Roy's eye level. "Do you remember when you got sick?"

"Yeah, I throwed up and Mommy tooked me to the doctor. It was scary."

"Before you got sick, did anyone give you something? Maybe something you knew you shouldn't take?"

Roy looked down guiltily.

"Roy Honey," Lucy said, "tell the truth. Mommy won't be mad."

"Yeah," Roy answered quietly.

"What was it?"

"She gaved me a Tootsie Roll. A big one."

"Did you know the woman who gave it to you?" Goren asked. "Have you ever seen her before?"

He shook his head. "She said she gaved to me because I opened the door for her. She was at preschool the day before I got sick. I never sawed her before."

Eames asked, "Roy, is she in any of these pictures?" She showed him a photo array.

Lucy's eyes flickered to Van Holt's photo, but she didn't say anything.

Roy looked at the pictures, then shook his head. "She had black hair and big glasses."

"Do any of these women look like she would if she didn't have black hair and glasses?"

"I don't know," he answered.

"Really? Look carefully," Goren gently encouraged him.

Roy looked at the pictures again, but shook his head. "Mommy said tell the truf, and I don't know."

After Lucy and Roy left, Eames shook her head. "She poisoned a kid. What's wrong with this woman?"

"She's angry," Goren said as though it explained everything.


	11. The Why

Chapter 11: The Why

Eames read and reread the file on her desk through tired eyes.

"What's that?" Goren asked.

"Van Holt's credit card charges." She dropped the pages. "If there's anything useful here, I don't see it."

"May I?" Goren asked and took the folder.

"I'm also getting the record of Van Holt's drug charges sent over. Probably unrelated, but we might get lucky."

"Uh-huh." Goren was distracted. He suddenly stood up and looked with interest at something in Van Holt's credit card records.

"What is it?"

"Every Thursday night, up until last month, she has credit card charges to restaurants. A different restaurant each time. Look at the amounts."

Eames' eyebrows shot up. "Looks like she was eating for two."

* * *

At Fred's Fine Dining, the last Thursday night restaurant on Van Holt's credit card statement, they showed her photo to half a dozen people before a waitress recalled her. "Her...yeah, she was here with her boyfriend a few weeks ago. I remember because they got in a huge argument." 

"Do you remember what they argued about?"

"I don't know. I just remember she said 'How could you' and he said 'It was a long time ago,' and she called him a heartless bastard and he said she was overreacting. That's when she got quiet. She paid the bill and walked out. He shouted across the room to ask her where to meet next week, and she really calmly said she'd make reservations for them in hell. I think he was crying when he left."

"Did you catch the boyfriend's name?"

The waitress shook her head. "Sorry."

"What about what he looked like?"

"Uh, dark, had a goatee. I didn't get a good look at him; the light's really bad where they were sitting. He had an accent, but I didn't recognize it. I do remember he was wearing a ring and she wasn't."

Goren dug a photo from his folder. "Is this the man she was with?" he asked, showing her the image of Yusuf Pasha.

"It could be," the waitress said after a moment. "I really don't remember. Sorry. It was a while ago."

Eames flipped through her notes as they walked back to her car.

"Christy doesn't own a car...She could have met Pasha while taking his cab and started an affair."

"Probably," Eames said distractedly as she pulled out her phone and dialed a number from her notes. "Hi, this is Detective Eames from the Major Case Squad, I'm investigating the murder of Yusuf Pasha. What was his schedule on Thursdays? Really? Thank you." She hung up. "Starting a few months ago, Yusuf changed his schedules to get off early on Thursdays. He said it was so he could spend more time with his family. His wife said he worked late every week night. Sounds like a man with a mistress."

"She knew he was married. She decided to kill him when she found out about his involvement in the bombing back in Cyprus."

"But without a positive ID on Pasha, Christy's lawyer could say it was her imaginary boyfriend Armando."

Goren paused and turned toward her without looking at her. "I wonder what she'd say if we told her the waitress did make a positive ID."

* * *

"I'd like a moment to consult with my client," her lawyer said. 

"I don't need a moment. Your witness was wrong; I was with Armando that night."

"The witness said you argued with him, then told him to go to hell when you left."

"Was that because...you found out he was married?" Goren asked her. They hadn't told her the waitress remembered Pasha's ring, and he was hoping to catch her in a lie.

She glanced at him with the hint of a smirk on her face. "No. I knew he was married. This may sound strange, but I was angry at him because when I started seeing him I thought he was still with his wife. When I found out he'd walked out on his wife and daughter almost a year ago, _that's _what ticked me off."

"How convenient that 'Armando' is out of the country and can't confirm your story," Eames taunted.

"Might I remind you," her lawyer said, "that Yusuf Pasha isn't around to back up _your _allegations that he and my client were having an affair."

"Because your client killed him," Eames countered.

"When you dig up some evidence to back that up, call me," he said. "My client and I are leaving now."

Eames glared at them as they left the interrogation room. "They're starting to get on my nerves."

"Unfortunately, they're right," Carver said. "They called your bluff on the witness ID. You still don't have any solid evidence connecting your suspect to Mr. Pasha, and no evidence at all linking her to Monica Smith. Not to mention that you haven't found the murder weapon."

"The gun's probably in the bottom of the river by now," said Eames.

"I'm not so sure."

Eames and Carver turned to Goren. "Please tell me you're having a flash of inspiration, Detective."

"No, not inspiration, just insight. I think Van Holt's the kind of person who would keep the gun around where she could get it when she needs it. She's already killed on at least three separate occasions, and if she used the gun to threaten Meagan then she didn't dump it after using it to kill Hart, Pasha, and Smith. I think she hid it somewhere, somewhere she doesn't think we'll look for it. She thinks she's smarter than us."

"Prove her wrong. And do it quickly; we can't hold her much longer on this evidence."

"What now?" Eames asked after Carver left the room.

"We should look at her drug arrest. It might give us an idea of where she would hide the gun."

Van Holt's criminal record was on Eames' desk a few minutes later. "Not much here. The cops found small amounts of cocaine and marijuana in her dorm room, in plain sight. The cops searched the room and didn't find anything else. She pleaded no contest to possession and insisted her roommate didn't know about it."

"I think we should track down the roommate," Goren said.

* * *

Tuesday, August 7. 

They found Van Holt's college roommate, Anjeta Sayre, in her photography studio in Boston.

"Christy? I haven't heard from her in years. Is she alright?"

"She's a suspect in a murder investigation," Eames answered.

Anjeta stared at her. "Murder? That's unfathomable."

"She was arrested for drug possession while you were roommates, isn't that right?" Goren inquired.

"Yes. But she wasn't seriously into drugs. And she swore she'd get out of it as soon as she graduated. She's not always easy to get along with, but she's a good person; she'd never kill anyone. In fact, after her drug arrest she lobbied the college financial aid department to let me keep my scholarship."

Goren tilted his head. "But not her own? Was she going to college on a scholarship?"

"No." Anjeta looked like she was about to add something, but didn't.

"Ms. Sayre, this is a murder investigation. We need you to tell us everything you know."

"She didn't have a scholarship. She paid for college with money she inherited from her mother, and with selling drugs. That's what the drugs in our room were for. She never took them. She didn't even drink."

"The drugs the police found in your dorm weren't enough to sell," Eames said.

"She didn't usually keep any in our room. She was selling that to some guys from her history class. Selling drugs was the only way she could think of to pay for college. She's not that kind of person."

"Where did she usually hide her drugs?" Goren asked.

"I don't know. She didn't tell me. I never asked."

In the car, Goren was frowning deeply, thoughtfully. "Van Holt paid for college with money she inherited from her mother. It might be interesting to know how her mother died."

"Murder begins at home."

* * *

"Dr. Johnson said Sylvia Van Holt died of a diabetic seizure. She'd recently been in an accident that left her in a wheelchair, and we determined she'd been unable to reach her insulin in time," said Captain Dent, who'd investigated the suspect's late mother's death over a decade before. 

"Where was her daughter while this was happening?" Eames inquired.

"She was at school. She found her mother's body after getting home and dialed 911. She was hysterical."

"Did anything about the death seem...suspicious?"

Captain Dent shook his head. "Nothing indicated foul play. Ms. Van Holt didn't have any enemies any of her contacts knew about, and nothing was stolen. I felt so sorry for the kid. There was no dad in the picture. She really had no one. But she got along, from what I heard."

Something suddenly occurred to Goren. "Had the daughter been in any trouble? Did she cause problems at school, or were there any complaints filed against her by neighbors?"

He shrugged. "Usual kid stuff. She got in a couple of fights, but she wasn't one of the neighborhood teenage hooligans. She was a quiet kid with a lot of potential."

As they walked out into the streets of Rochester, Goren said, "It wouldn't have been hard for Christy to put her mother's insulin out of reach before she went to school, and then move it back before she called the police."

"Possible, but not provable, at least not this long after the fact," Eames replied. "Any other ideas?"

"Her old high school. Someone who knew her then might know something about the kind of person she is, which will tell us why she kills, which could help us find a way to get her to confess."

The counselor of Seneca High School, Mrs. Rachel Wood, remembered Christy Van Holt. "All the teachers loved Christy," she said. "She was always quiet and devoted. I was worried about her after her mother died, but she just put even more effort into her school work. She was very worried about how she would pay for college. Her mother had never had money to put away for her college fund, and her test scores weren't quite good enough to guarantee her much in scholarships, but her mother's life insurance were enough to get her there."

"Did Christy ever get into fights?"

"Never on school property. One boy tripped her into a mud puddle, ruining her nice shirt, on picture day, and then he denied it and refused to apologize. She said it was fine, but the next day he came to school with a rather nasty black eye, and he claimed she hit him. But generally she was a very well-behaved girl."

Eames stood. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Wood. We'll call you if..."

Goren interrupted her. "You said she was popular among the teachers; what about the other students? Did she have many friends? Or any enemies?"

Mrs. Wood hesitated before answering. "Well...she didn't have any close friends. She usually ate lunch alone, with a book in her hand. Some of the other students gave her a hard time. The popular athletes, including the boy who pushed her in the mud, didn't have much to do with her. There was one group of girls who I believe went out of their way to make her feel socially awkward, including the student body president, Monica Cromwell."

Goren blinked. "Was this school renamed in the past few years?"

"Yes. Until five years ago we were South Rochester High."

Goren thanked her heartily, then walked out. Eames followed him. Outside the school, she gave him a quizzical look.

He explained, "Smith...had a South Rochester High yearbook...it was her. That's Van Holt's connection to Monica Smith."

"Thirteen years is a long time to hold a grudge," Eames stated.

"For her, it's the perfect length of time. She suppresses her anger, but it doesn't ever fade. Give her motive, means, and opportunity, and she has no choice but to lash out." He nodded slightly to himself. "That's how I can get her." He didn't explain further.


	12. Game Over

Last chapter. Sorry that it doesn't end on a good note for their partnership, but this story was never meant to explain why she withdrew the letter, only why she decided to write it in the first place.

Chapter 12: Game Over

Wednesday August 8. 

Goren had three books on psychology spread out on his desk.

"Figured her out yet?" Eames asked.

"I'm getting there," he mumbled in reply. "We should look for the gun in her office building, maybe in the parking garage. She would have wanted it somewhere she could grab quickly. She wouldn't have risked carrying it with her."

"We've already searched her office."

"She...wouldn't have kept it in her office. Somewhere she would think no one would look."

Eames stood up. "Then why are we wasting time around here? Let's go find it."

Goren grabbed his coat and followed her.

At Wargrave Technologies office, Goren took one look around Van Holt's office, then started searching the halls. He and Eames searched the restrooms, the janitor closet, behind the vending machines, the stairwells, the elevator, everywhere they could think of. Then they went to the parking garage, where Goren believed the gun was most likely hidden. He glanced around, imagining he was looking at the large enclosed space from Van Holt's psychological viewpoint.

Meanwhile, Eames systematically searched every place something the size of a gun could be hidden. She looked under cars, in garbage cans, and along the pipes running along the ceiling. She squinted.

Goren shook his head slightly at his own thoughts, then started walking along a row of cars. "She could have hidden the gun on someone else's car. That would fit with...the boldness she displayed in the murders." He noticed Eames climbing up onto the hood of a truck. It only took him a second to realize she was trying to get a better look at the pipe system running above the cars. "Assigned parking spaces. Can you reach the pipes from there?"

She reached up. "Barely. Christy's about half a foot taller than me."

Goren turned in a circle, noting the tall trucks and SUVs, and the bright circular lights set at regular distances along the ceiling. "Alex, over here."

She jumped off the truck and sprinted after him as he walked to a large white van with a light fixture directly above it. "Can you see anything above the light?"

"Of course not," she answered.

"The light's so bright that someone could hide a gun above it...if anyone looked for it, the light would temporarily blind them."

"The gun would be practically invisible." She climbed onto the van, pulled on a latex glove, and carefully felt around the metal platform above the light. "Here!" She winced as she pulled down a nine-millimeter handgun. "It's hot."

Goren held up an evidence bag. She dropped the gun in it before sliding to the ground.

"Now we just have to hope her prints are on it."

"Or on the light fixture. Call CSU to come dust for prints."

As Eames called for CSU, Goren looked up at the light thoughtfully.

"They're on their way," Eames said.

"Can I borrow your phone?"

Eames handed her cellphone to him. "Why don't you get your own phone?"

"My skill set doesn't include figuring out anything high-tech," he explained. Eames was left to wonder if he was joking when he wondered away and dialed a number. He walked back toward her a minute later, still on the phone. "It would be better if it's both...The scarier it looks, the better...For liability purposes, you don't want to know...See what you can come up with. I'll be there in about an hour." Then she heard him call a cab.

"Where are you going?" she asked when he handed her phone back.

"To see a guy about a thing. I'll meet you back at the office. You don't mind handling things here for a while, do you?"

"I guess not," she said with an unhappy sigh as he walked away.

* * *

"The gun was unregistered, of course. No fingerprints. There's still nothing directly linking Miss Van Holt to the killings. I can maybe scrape together enough to get this case to trial, but I doubt I can convince a jury of her guilt," Carver told Eames at the station later that afternoon. 

"Goren had an idea. He went to see a contact and hasn't come back yet," said Eames.

Carver looked confused. "I saw him talking to Mr. Deakins a few minutes ago."

Eames frowned. "Oh really?"

At that moment, Deakins approached them. "Mr. Carver, there you are. Goren's interrogating the suspect now."

Carver and Eames followed him to the observation room. Through the glass they could see Goren, Van Holt, and her lawyer.

"What's going on?" Eames questioned.

"Goren has an idea," Deakins answered simply.

"What?"

"He didn't tell me."

"That's strange."

"Not really," Deakins said. "He sometimes has trouble explaining what he has in mind, but he gets results." He turned up the volume and listened to the interrogation.

Goren was speaking. "It must have stung. You saw Monica on TV, heard about how that arrogant, stuck-up cheerleader married up, inherited a fortune, lived the high life you should have had. The popular girl grew up to be rich and famous while you, with your brains and hard work, got stuck in a dead-end job at a struggling company. That wasn't right."

"I didn't even recognize her," Van Holt calmly contended. "She'd changed her last name, her hair color. I had no idea it was the same Monica."

"Do you really expect me to believe that?"

"It doesn't matter if you believe it," the lawyer, Mr. Paul, pointed out. "What matters is whether you can prove it in a court of law."

Eames, still watching through the glass, flicked her hair out of her face. "I should be helping him."

"He was very specific that he wanted to talk to the suspect alone," Deakins said.

"Too bad he can't tell me what to do," Eames said, and she walked out of the observation room.

A moment later, Goren heard the door open. He glanced over his shoulder and saw his partner enter. He could barely keep an expression of disapproval and fear from his face. He'd told Deakins to make sure no one walked in. Eames could derail his plan. But at this point, he had to go forward with his plan, because if he didn't get a confession now, they would have to release her. And she would run. She had nothing to lose.

Goren looked back at the suspect while Eames took a seat beside him. "We heard about your mother's death when you were seventeen. That must have been...very hard on you."

"Yes, very. Is this going anywhere?" She asked with her usual composure.

"It's funny," Eames said, "that your mother died because she couldn't reach her insulin. I would think she would have been more careful after her car accident."

Goren frowned slightly. He hadn't wanted to bring that up yet.

Van Holt's cold eyes shifted to her. "You're implying I killed my own mother. I didn't. Why would I? She was all the family I had."

Goren nodded. "That's right. When she raised you, it was just the two of you. Being a single parent, your mother must have had a hard life. She must have sacrificed a lot for you."

"She did," Van Holt said. "I loved her very much."

"When did she start beating you?" Goren asked smoothly.

Van Holt's jaw dropped and her eyes narrowed. For once, she didn't have a quick answer.

"Do you even remember?" Goren continued. "You couldn't leave, you couldn't tell anyone. She was all you had. You lived with it. You got used to it. That's why you're so...calm when you're threatened, when you're confronted with hostility...or violence. It's what you know."

"My mother didn't beat me."

Eames spoke again. "And then, after her car accident, you saw an opportunity to kill her, and you took it. You made the beatings stop, and got the money to pay for college."

"You have a lot of imagination, Detective Eames," Mr. Paul said.

Goren leaned forward and looked Van Holt in the eyes. She returned his gaze easily, but deep in her eyes he saw hatred. It was time. "Are you a killer, Christy?"

"No," she answered firmly.

"You're not consumed with hate, toward your mother, toward the world...so much that it burns away everything else inside of you? So much that you can't control your violence?"

"No."

He pulled out a knife that he'd been concealing in his sleeve. It was a small, ornate antique knife with a gold hilt. He pushed it across the table, leaving it in front of Van Holt. Her eyes fixed on it.

"What is this?" Paul demanded. "You're not supposed to have that in here. Is this some kind of trick?"

"What do you think?" Goren asked, keeping his eyes on Van Holt. "You know this knife wasn't used in any of the murders. This isn't evidence. If your client isn't what I think she is, than there's no danger having that little thing here. What do you think, Christy? Do you think you could kill someone with that little thing? Wouldn't you love to see what it feels like in your hand?"

She didn't answer. She was completely still.

"You know she can, don't you? Because she killed those people, because that's what she does. She covers it up, but she can't fool us. She's...undisciplined. Feral. An animal."

In a lightning flash, Van Holt sprang from stillness to a blur of action. She grabbed the knife and darted across the table toward Goren. Eames jumped back and had her gun out an instant later, but by then it was over. Goren had Van Holt by the wrists, and was pushing her back. Uniformed officers flooded in, wrestled the knife from her, and had her in handcuffs.

"Go to hell! All of you!"

"I'm sure you'd love to send me there, like you did your mother and the others?"

"They deserved it! You all do."

Goren stepped up to her. "That may be true, but why did you deserve to kill them?"

Her rage faded and she stared at him with a deadened coldness. "Why not?" she replied.

When Mr. Paul got over his shock, he stood up to follow his client, but paused to tell Goren, "You think your little antics will win your case? I guarantee you I'll have this thrown out." He didn't look as confident as he sounded.

Carver met up with Goren as he left the interrogation room. "This will hold up in court," he said, "but next time you try something like this, run it by me first."

* * *

Minutes later, Goren finally worked up the guts to talk to Eames after what happened. She deliberately didn't look at him. as he approached her. 

"Do you...understand now?" he asked.

She glanced at him. "You put a knife in the hand of a killer. Are you insane?"

"I got the confession...The knife was too dull to cut skin; it wasn't that dangerous."

"Well if it was so safe," she countered, "why didn't you want me in there with you?"

He couldn't think of an answer to that.

"You seem to keep forgetting I'm your partner," she said. There was a flicker in her eyes of something more than irritation.

"I'm sorry, Alex," he said quietly.

"Don't say you're sorry if you don't mean it. There aren't many things I won't put up with, but insincere apologies is one of them." She stood up. "And don't call me Alex."

He met her eyes. There was an uncertainty in them; she was starting to seriously consider leaving. He figured she was too tough to walk out on the partnership after one case, but she was thinking about it.

Then she turned and walked away. He sighed. Alex Eames wasn't just a good cop; she was witty, she had spunk and sangfroid. She would make a good partner.

He was really going to miss this one.

The End


End file.
